


fine line

by starsqwub



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:15:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27057817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsqwub/pseuds/starsqwub
Summary: “Do you find me pretty intriguing, Akaashi?”“Not particularly,” Akaashi lies again.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 266
Kudos: 1350





	1. Chapter 1

_The ball slams down onto the court like a bolt of lightning. Your eyes dart to the ref, awaiting his signal hungrily; it’s all of eternity packed in a second while you ask,_

_in or out?_

_Win or lose?_

_The whistle blows—_

* * *

_Welcoming_. That’s the word.

Bokuto-san’s eyes are very welcoming.

It’s a nice quality for an upperclassman to have; Akaashi hadn’t expected his first year in high school volleyball to be all that remarkable, but those expectations changed with a single wide-eyed glance. (Remarkable’s a good word, too; Bokuto-san’s spikes are sometimes quite _remarkable_ , and his eyes are _welcoming_.)

The other upperclassmen are certainly kind. (But not, say, _generous_ , like Bokuto-san.)

Akaashi’s teammates make him laugh. (But he doesn’t find them _amusing_ , really. Not like Bokuto-san can be.)

So,

welcoming eyes. Remarkable skill. Naturally generous. An amusing spirit.

All in all, there could be far worse qualities in a teammate.

* * *

“Scary! It’s like you’re a mind-reader, Akaashi!”

Akaashi blinks slowly, lifting an arm to wipe the sweat cooling on his brow. “How do you mean, Bokuto-san,” he says, reaching for their water bottles resting beneath the bench.

Bokuto gives a decisive nod. “Yes, I will stay late to practice more spikes with you. I’m glad you asked.” His smile reaches his golden eyes, even stretches to the tips of his spiked silvery hair.

Akaashi straightens, holding his and Bokuto’s water bottles very close to his chest. Then, extending Bokuto’s out, he replies: “I didn’t ask.”

Bokuto happily takes the water bottle while Akaashi makes a mental amendment; no, he hasn’t asked,

but he was about to.

Akaashi lifts his own bottle to his lips. “Scary,” he echoes softly, taking a light sip, while Bokuto nods through big gulps.

* * *

Akaashi writes in short, neat strokes.

He writes notes for an upcoming history test.

He writes to-do lists, and grocery lists, and secret lists just for himself.

He writes down significant dates in a modest journal, though there are never many (but there are at least a few).

He writes beginnings to stories that he doesn’t quite know how to end.

He writes _“Hello Bokuto-san”_ on a paper passed his way, one that has _“Hey Akaashi!”_ scribbled out in messy blue ink.

* * *

In Akaashi’s first year of high school volleyball, they lose some games, but win far more. He shouts encouragements from the bench with his fellow underclassmen who expect the same as he does, more or less—to spend a season watching wins from this side of a long painted line.

But it’s like Akaashi blinks, and he’s crossed the line with very little resistance, which is... odd, isn’t it? He’s only a first year, and an unexceptional one at that. He’s no maverick, no star, and he tells his coach as much. His concerns are waived with ease, apparently, because just like that, he goes from itching to toss, to tossing. He isn’t cheering Bokuto’s name anymore—he calls it, which is so much more direct, so necessary. In fact, Akaashi prefers it: “Bokuto-san!” he shouts _(shouts!)_ ,

and those eyes meet his again, bright, alive,

 _welcoming_.

In Akaashi’s first year of high school volleyball, they lose some games, and win far more, but his favorites are always the ones he plays in, regardless.

* * *

“What else do you like, Akaashi.”

Akaashi looks up from his homework a few moments late, only just hearing the question. “What else do I like,” he repeats plainly.

Bokuto stretches his arms across the tabletop and over their many loose papers and textbooks, poking at Akaashi’s writing hand playfully. “Yeah, I’m making a little list in my head. Food is at the top.”  
  
Akaashi’s brow wrinkles. He didn’t know Bokuto-san made lists. “I like plenty more things than food, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto grins wickedly. “Does that put me at the top, then?”

“That’s bold, Bokuto-san. Even for you,” Akaashi murmurs with an accusatory point of his mechanical pencil. He returns his focus to his homework, pretending he can’t feel the flush running up the back of his neck.

“Okay, ignoring that!” Bokuto chirps, sitting up straight. He holds a hand up and counts along his fingers; “There’s volleyball, summertime—“

“ _Summertime,_ ” Akaashi quickly interjects, his brow wrinkling again. He stills his writing hand. “How did you come to that conclusion.”

Bokuto blinks. “You hate the cold, Akaashi!” His voice is loud and nearly cracks, likely at the weight of how very obvious this has to be, this _must_ be, that Akaashi likes summertime—

which he does, admittedly.

Akaashi attempts to carry on with his homework again, though he’s lost his place in the textbook.

Bokuto continues listing, absolutely unflappable. “But that’s why you like jackets, too, you’re always asking me where mine is. You like… reading,” Bokuto says with some newfound import, his eyes widening at all the books in Akaashi’s bedroom. “A lot.” And now Bokuto gets up in one swift motion, swinging his arms about like he’s warming up for a spike. He approaches a bookshelf and peers at all the various titles, tilting his head like a dog might when they spy food in your hands.

Akaashi sighs. He closes his textbook gently. “Do you like reading, Bokuto-san?” he asks, more out of politeness than true curiosity, though come to think of it, it’s hard to imagine Bokuto choosing to sit still on his own accord.

“I like audiobooks sometimes,” Bokuto says, tossing Akaashi an affirming smile over his shoulder. “When I’m out for a run or something. It’s nice.”

Akaashi feels himself grinning, like he’s aced some sort of quiz. He idly wonders what kinds of stories Bokuto listens to on jogs around the neighborhood. Perhaps that’s why he offers this: “I like writing,” Akaashi says, and at Bokuto’s quizzical expression, he reiterates again: “I like to write.”

Bokuto’s smile can hardly fit on his face. “Top of the list?” he asks, rushing back to the table. 

Akaashi thinks on this; “Top of the list,” he lies. “Why do you want to know these sorts of things, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto scrunches his face in very earnest concentration, tapping a thoughtful finger to his chin. “I find you…” he mulls, dragging out each syllable, and then, with a snap of his fingers: “Intriguing! Is that the word? Did I use that right, Akaashi?”

Akaashi’s face pinches again, this time to suppress a laugh. He opens his textbook and thumbs through the chapters; “That’s correct, yes.”

“Do you find me pretty intriguing, Akaashi?”

“Not particularly,” Akaashi lies again.

* * *

It’s the final set of the final game of his first ever season of high school volleyball, and Akaashi wanders into the storm.

Akaashi usually erred to observe Bokuto’s fits from a safe distance. The ace’s emotional outbursts swung like a leaden pendulum; Akaashi didn’t want to be blamed for sending them hurtling in the wrong direction. 

Torrential, cataclysmic, petty, _dire_ —

these were all fine words for Bokuto's moods. 

(It’d only taken a little while for Akaashi to understand that he would _never_ understand Bokuto Koutarou, not at all. Not even a little.

Though, he could still try to. He could try to understand.)

It’s probably adrenaline, the thing that makes Akaashi stomp Bokuto’s way—or his innate competitive streak, the fact that they’re tied up in a game they could have won ten minutes prior, no thanks to Bokuto’s pity parade.

(Akaashi doesn’t understand Bokuto Koutarou, 

but he has his theories.

He wants to _try_.)

“So scary, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi mutters with a shake of his head, trying his best to sound blithe, off-the-cuff. Bokuto turns to Akaashi slowly, like he’s moving through mud, as Akaashi gives a shrug; “It’s like you’re a mind-reader.”

“Mind… wah? Akaashi?” Bokuto mumbles, arms hanging heavy.

Akaashi nods curtly. “Yes, I will toss to you for the breakpoint. I’m glad you asked.”

Konoha makes a small, choked sound from somewhere on the court behind him.

For several terrifying seconds Akaashi dreads that he’s made a grave miscalculation, judging Bokuto’s comically vacant stare. The ace is effectively catatonic, and the ref is readying his whistle, and oh god oh god oh _god_ , this isn’t going to work at all, what was he thinking?! He gauges the potential damage this will wreak upon the team, how steeply the team morale will plummet after losing their last match of the season. They’ll ban Akaashi from the gym; he’ll likely have to homeschool, and become a recluse; he’ll have to change his name, too, and dye his hair, and sell all his possessions, and move overseas, and—

Bokuto laughs, his voice a little scratchy and high. (It sounds like a light piercing through darkness, if such a thing had a sound, Akaashi thinks.)

“That is scary, Akaashi!” Bokuto says, making a tight fist. He smiles, eyes bright (light in the dark). “I was just gonna ask.”

It takes a slow moment, but Akaashi smiles, too. It all feels a bit uncanny; something in Bokuto’s eyes really means it, really believes in their strange connection. He trusts that Akaashi’s already answered all of his many unspoken questions.

Or something.

(Some theories are stranger than others.)

* * *

They win the final set of the final game of his first ever season of high school volleyball, and Akaashi understands at least one small, but significant, thing:

Bokuto Koutarou is not a storm.He is a star,

though there is a fine line between the two.

(And an even smaller thing, still:

Bokuto is his friend, 

which is at least a little bit significant. 

_Remarkable_ , even.) 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything with Bokuto is the best it’s ever been, though he could never tell him that.
> 
> So troublesome. 

Akaashi opens his journal and brandishes his most favorite pen.

He writes this:

_“Today concluded the last chapter of my first year of high school. It didn’t end with some sort of shocking twist; there weren’t any love confessions, or secret villains revealed. No cliffhangers._   
  
_It just ended well, which I think is more than enough. My lunch was filling, and the weather was nice. Good endings are satisfying and oftentimes rare. I much prefer a good ending to cheap thrills._

_On to summer._

_Oh, and also._

_I am starting to realize that Bokuto doesn’t just pick his nose when I’m not watching; he picks it when I absolutely am watching, too._

_So troublesome.”_

Akaashi closes the journal with a sly grin.

The little plain book likely wouldn’t be opened again well into the next school year. Akaashi absolutely loves summertime, but it’s often a quiet season for him; he spends his summers indoors. He catches up on his reading, and revisits old favorites. He tries to write. He’ll go to club practice, of course; that’ll be new, and undoubtedly interesting, what with—

Akaashi’s phone rings. (Bokuto never texts, he just calls.)

He answers it swiftly. “Hello, Bokuto-san. What’s wrong.” Couldn’t be homework help, the school year’s over. Though, knowing Bokuto…

“Akaashi!” Bokuto chimes with conviction, as if they hadn’t just walked home from school together a mere half-an-hour prior. “What are we doing tomorrow?”

Akaashi rocks back a bit on his calves. “There’s… no practice tomorrow, Bokuto-san.”

“I know!” comes the loud reply, and Akaashi blinks reflexively. “So what are we doing?”

Akaashi doesn’t quite know how to answer right away, but secretly he’s quite pleased by Bokuto’s patience on the other end of the line.

What are we doing tomorrow, Akaashi ponders, his mind marveling a bit at the statement’s… _certainty_.

“I wanted to look for some running shoes,” he finally offers. “We could go to the mall.” Akaashi presses a finger to his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Get lunch, I suppose.”

He pulls the phone away from his ear in anticipation of the imminent shout: “YES!” A crash resounds on the end of the line, and Akaashi’s absolutely certain Bokuto jumped too high indoors. “Ow! Okay! Great. I’ll meet you at your house, Akaashi. Okay, okay, have a good evening!”

Akaashi stifles a laugh. “Good evening, Bokuto-san.” He hangs up the phone.

That night, lying atop his neatly made bed, Akaashi rereads his latest journal entry, and uncaps his most favorite pen.  
  
He boldly underlines two words, his eyes and hands heavy with sleep:

_“ So troublesome.”_

* * *

When he meets Bokuto out in the entryway, it’s like the summer all around them has burst at its seams; the sun is exceptionally brighter, and the cicadas scream loud and steady, and all the greens are deeply green, the sky an even blue.

Bokuto’s baseball cap casts a stark shadow across his face, though his eyes gleam brighter still. “Hey hey!” he says, waving from just three feet away. “Good morning!”  
  
“Good morning, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, waving back. He shuts the front door and locks it, checking twice to make sure it’s locked properly. He tugs on his own cap, then gives a nod.

Bokuto lets out a giddy noise, practically bouncing down the sidewalk. “Alright, come on!”

Akaashi rolls his eyes up at the sky’s even blue. _Troublesome_.

* * *

The bus ride is filled with Bokuto’s eager chattering, mostly about the breakfast he ate that morning, and the kinds of running shoes he prefers, and how they could do morning runs together if Akaashi wanted, if he could keep up of course, which he might be able to if he gets the best kind of shoes, the kind Bokuto likes the most.

When they arrive at the running store, Bokuto immediately disappears down the aisles, like a hunting dog sniffing for foxes. His head pops up over shelves in the way, way back, strangely unfamiliar without its usual spiky silhouette. “Back here, Akaashi!” Bokuto calls.

The brand in question is very sleek, all smooth lines and speedy curves; the logo, rabbit’s ears, skirts the side of each shoe.

Bokuto taps a few pairs. “I think you’ll like these, Akaashi! I did some research. They’re lightweight. Real nice, not too pricey.”

Akaashi tries on a few pairs, jogging laps down the aisles; Bokuto playfully races beside him, eyebrows waggling. He occasionally asks Akaashi insightful questions about size and sole, passing along different shoes depending on the response. He even grumpily offers a pair from an altogether different brand, admitting they might be a worthy, if not nearly as _cool_ , alternative.

“I like the rabbits,” Akaashi decides, to Bokuto’s cartoonish surprise. He picks up one of the simpler pairs, solid black with blue ears.

Bokuto’s eyes grow wide. “Really?! You like ‘em, Akaashi? Are you sure?”

Akaashi nods once, laying the shoes into their box. “I’ll certainly outpace you in these.”  
  
“Hey! Okay, Akaashi!” Bokuto laughs, and he helps return the rest of the shoes to their boxes. “I’m taking that as a compliment. I know shoes, Akaashi. I’m kind of an expert. You should be thanking me.”

Akaashi takes his shoebox and stands, giving a short bow. “Thank you, Bokuto-san,” he says.

Bokuto’s eyebrows nearly shoot up into space, and Akaashi quickly turns away, pressing a hand to his mouth to keep the grin there from erupting.

(While Akaashi purchases his new running shoes, he observes Bokuto stretching outside the shop; his cheeks are pink, and he lets out a breathless laugh, like he’s just remembering a funny joke.

Knowing Bokuto, it’s probably exactly that. Akaashi will ask him about the joke later.)

* * *

They sit on a concrete planter in the outdoor mall, munching on convenience store buns, people watching.

A smartly-dressed man walks into a clothing store.

“He’s buying socks,” Bokuto says between chews. “His favorite thing in the entire world is a good pair of socks. He buys ten pairs a week. He has a problem, and needs an intervention.”

An older woman with blindingly white hair exits an electronics store.

“She’s hooked on Pokémon Go,” Akaashi mumbles, mouth full. “Plays on five different phones.” He wipes a crumb from his mouth. “Well, six now.”

A group of middle-schoolers skip past, all giggles.

“Cold-blooded killers,” Bokuto says.  
  
“They just buried the body,” Akaashi adds.

“Math teacher.”  
  
“In broad daylight.”  
  
“With a calculator?”  
  
Akaashi nearly chokes he laughs so hard.

(He’d have to write that down tonight.)

* * *

“I’m excited for this summer, Akaashi,” Bokuto says on the bus ride home, voice oddly hushed, like he’s revealing something precious hidden in the palm of his hand. He looks Akaashi straight in the eye.

The sun’s nearly set, washing the bus and their arms and bags from the mall in a sleepy, orange light.

“Me too, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says. He pictures summertime in his hand, unfurls his fingers in the glow.

(Precious is a good word.)

* * *

(He never asked about the joke. All well.)

* * *

The summer after Akaashi’s first year of high school,

he runs further and faster than he’s ever run.

He plays more volleyball than he’s ever played,

makes more friends than he can count on both hands.

He fills his journal from end to end,

with statistics and stories and frustrations,

with all of the troubles that Bokuto causes him,

so many troubles.

His most favorite pen runs dry, and he has to buy another.

He takes the best and deepest naps of his life that summer.

He sometimes even does nothing that summer, and even the nothing is the best it’s ever been, because he does nothing with a friend by his side.

Everything with Bokuto is the best it’s ever been, though he could never tell him that.

So troublesome.

He feels like he can take over the world that summer;

he feels unlike himself, which is a relief.

* * *

“Read my mind, Akaashi!”

Akaashi doubles over himself, already beat from their brief loop around the neighborhood. The sun sits high in the sky on a late afternoon in August. He pants: “You… want… to go another… lap, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto lifts his shirt to wipe the sweat beneath his chin. “Yeah, well, that too—jeez, Akaashi, do you need new shoes again? What happened to outpacing me, huh?“

Akaashi scowls at Bokuto’s guilty grin.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” Bokuto wheezes, winded, though less so. He looks anxious, Akaashi notes; he’s bouncing with nerves, and not his usual whimsy. “Akaashi,” he says again, his shirt still idly pressed beneath his chin. He removes his earbuds and lets them swing loosely from his neck. An audiobook’s narrator drones out from the buds and into the summer heat, its volume turned up far too high. “I think you should be my vice-captain this year.”

This keeps happening, Akaashi thinks, still gasping for air. He keeps waking up and not understanding how he got to this point, how he crossed all these lines; how someone hasn’t stopped them by now, and pointed to Akaashi, and yelled, “That one there! He doesn’t belong.” He doesn’t ask for anything, doesn’t expect much. He just keeps his head down and works hard and stays honest.

Yes, he hopes for good endings; 

he's just so used to expecting bad ones.

The summer after Akaashi’s first year of high school, he feels unlike himself,

because being with Bokuto tricks you into feeling—

“Okay,” Akaashi wheezes. “I will.”

— _remarkable_ , too.

Bokuto's eyes are alight (summer bursting at the seams). "I knew you'd say yes." 

(Of course he did.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is very like me, actually,” Bokuto scoffs, “this is, this is just par for the court for Bokuto!” 
> 
> “It’s par for the course, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi corrects, as gently as he can. 

There is a word for this.

* * *

Akaashi’s a second year in high school, and his pulse is beginning to race.

It’s not just his pulse, really; it’s the whole campus, and all his classrooms. It’s the volleyball gym.

It’s Bokuto’s eyes.

Everything is buzzing with potential.

This year, they’re going to go to Nationals;

Bokuto and Akaashi will show the way.

* * *

“You’re making the face again,” Bokuto says.

Akaashi looks up from his bento box. “Hm?”

Bokuto squints his eyes into a steely stare, his thick brows drawn into sharp lines. “It’s your thinking face.”

“I have been known to think sometimes,” Akaashi says. “That at least makes one of us.”

“Akaaaaaaaashi! You don’t mean that!” Bokuto whines, tossing his head back. It hits the tree trunk behind him with an impressive _thunk_. “OW.”

“My point exactly,” Akaashi mutters, quickly reaching for Bokuto’s drink from the vending machine. He scoots to Bokuto’s side. “Bokuto-san, remove your hand, please,” he asks, and presses the chilled bottle to the fresh bump.

“Ow,” Bokuto whispers again, flinching at the bottle. He relaxes a bit, leaning onto one arm and into the bottle, his bicep pressed just a bit into Akaashi’s chest. “Who put that tree there?”

That earns a solid eye-roll from Akaashi, thoroughly pleasing Bokuto.

“What do you think so hard about, Akaashi?” Bokuto asks.

“Hm.” Akaashi thumbs a bit at the silver strands of hair sticking out against the bottle, stroking them smooth. 

A breeze picks up around them both, like a sly wink from autumn’s eye.

“What DON’T you think so hard about, Akaashi?” Bokuto asks now, twisting to look up to him.

That one earns an honest grin. Akaashi nods. “Good question.”

* * *

They practice quite late for many days at a time, but never as late as Bokuto wishes.

“What, you’re not gonna ask if I wanna spike too, Akaashi?” Konoha says one evening, pulling his bag’s strap over his shoulder.

Akaashi feels something knot up in his stomach. He looks to Bokuto on the court, and back to Konoha. “You,” he starts, brow furrowing, “We didn’t—I’m sorry—“

“Oh my god, I’m only kidding. Don’t panic,” Konoha says with a laugh. He gives Akaashi’s shoulder a little squeeze and heads to the locker room, something knowing in his pretty eyes. “Try not to overdo it, you two. See you tomorrow.”

“See you Konoha!” Bokuto shouts from far off, gearing up for a jump serve.

“Later Bokuto.” Konoha throws a peace sign out the door.

“Goodnight, senpai,” Akaashi all but whispers with a nod, suddenly, desperately wishing he knew whatever Konoha seems to know, too.

* * *

There is a word for this.

* * *

They walk to the train every morning for school, and they make the same trip back in the evenings, together.

They discuss Bokuto’s grades, and his spikes at practice, and rival teams in their division, and (of course) their plans for Nationals. Bokuto watches passing trains in windows; Akaashi watches Bokuto.

It’s a pleasant way to start and end each day, Akaashi thinks. A chance to recompose.

Bokuto grimaces one day on the train in November. He ducks his head between his knees like a sullen child. “Ugh. Why can’t I be more like you, Akaashi?”

The question is, frankly, stunning.

Akaashi leans over a bit to try and meet Bokuto’s eyes. “That’s... Bokuto-san, why would you say that?” Akaashi asks, gripping the fabric of his pants around his knees. “Did you forget to eat breakfast this morning? Are you feeling ill?”

“No, no, I just,” Bokuto’s shoulders slump, his backpack and gym bag straps falling away, “you have it all together, Akaashi! You’re perfect!”

Akaashi doesn’t know what makes him more uneasy—Bokuto’s volume on the morning commute, or his apparent insanity. “Bokuto-san, _please_ keep your voice down,” Akaashi manages to spit out, feeling something akin to whiplash. “This is very unlike you.”

“This is _very_ like me, actually,” Bokuto scoffs, “this is, this is just par for the court for Bokuto!”

“It’s par for the _course_ , Bokuto-san,” Akaashi corrects, as gently as he can.

“Right, right,” Bokuto nods, shrinking miserably into his seat. “Of course it is.”

It’s frighteningly powerful, the urge Akaashi feels, to reach out and hold Bokuto’s hand, or face, or whatever Bokuto will let him hold, for fear of him melting into a silvery puddle. He keeps to himself, though, and tries to conjure up good words instead—he’s probably better at that, than holding things with his hands.

“Bokuto-san,” he begins, treading carefully, “what’s brought this all on?”

Bokuto is slow to respond, though not for drama’s sake; his golden eyes flit back and forth, and Akaashi waits for him patiently. He fiddles with his abandoned backpack straps; “I think I’m just... hm.” Bokuto’s head whips to Akaashi’s then, so quickly it makes Akaashi gasp. “Please don’t tell anyone I said this. It’s... really embarrassing.”

Akaashi gives a wary nod, gripping his own backpack straps tightly. He can’t even begin to imagine what might follow next, not for the life of him or all the people on this train. Bokuto Koutarou, quite literally the most shameless boy he knows... _embarrassed?_

Akaashi braces himself.

Bokuto takes a deep breath through his nose;

he exhales loudly out his mouth;

and then, he exclaims:“I think I’m a little stressed out, Akaashi!”

Bokuto immediately curls up into himself, like a turtle hiding in its shell,

and Akaashi—

he does not laugh.

Not even a little bit.

He remains stone-like. Stoic. Unmovable. And he will remain as such, the absolute embodiment of impassiveness, while comforting his dear, suffering friend—

Akaashi snorts.

Bokuto’s jaw drops through the floor, completely scandalized. “AKAASHI!”

Akaashi claps a hand to his accursed, treacherous mouth, bowing deeply in his seat. “My apologies, Bokuto-san. That was very rude of me. I’m just...” He shakes his head, unable to shake the fond smile from his lips. “I’m _intrigued_. That’s all.”

Bokuto’s eyebrows jump at the word.

Akaashi continues: “Are you... not used to being stressed?”

The tension in Bokuto’s shoulders ease, if only by a bit. He looks away from Akaashi and down to his shoes (and Akaashi sees just how embarrassed Bokuto really is by all this, and that powerful urge to _hold_ rears its ugly head once more).

When he doesn’t speak up again, just fiddles with his straps, Akaashi continues: “What are you—“

The train eases to a stop before Akaashi can finish, almost realizing a moment too late that it’s their’s. He helps Bokuto to his feet and they shuffle onto the platform, but when Bokuto turns to walk in the direction of Fukurodani, Akaashi tugs his sleeve.

“Wait,” Akaashi says. He pulls Bokuto away from the sea of commuters and tries again, voice low: “What are you so stressed about, Bokuto-san. I’d like to know,” and he adds after a pause, “if you don’t mind me knowing.”

Bokuto nods and chews his lip, eyes ducking once again to the floor. (Yet another impossible idea, Akaashi realizes; Bokuto Koutarou, _doubtful_.) “I need to start thinking about exams,” Bokuto says, his voice oddly muted. “Graduation. Stuff like that. And on top of... you know. Everything. I just, I dunno, Akaashi. It’s so much, and I’m…” He looks up, finally, forehead all crumpled. “I’m scared I’ll mess things up for good.”

(The most impossible thing yet. Bokuto Koutarou,

 _scared_.)

Akaashi searches all over Bokuto’s eyes and face and feels something like fire burning up inside his skin; he feels something so _sure,_

like he’s staring straight into a star.

“You’re going to go to the Olympics, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, and this time, he does it: he takes Bokuto’s hand, or rather, three of his fingers. He holds tight.

“Akaashi?” Bokuto breathes, looking down to their hands, and up again.

“Before that you’ll play in V.League, you’ll play straight out of high school,” Akaashi continues, and the fire in his skin burns even hotter now, “and you’ll graduate just before that, because I will help you study, Bokuto-san. Every night if you want, or within reason, at least. And right before that,” Akaashi squeezes Bokuto’s fingers, squeezes with all the certainty in the world, “we’ll win Spring Interhigh. We will.”

The light in Bokuto’s eyes sparks up again; his three fingers curl into Akaashi’s. “How are you so sure, Akaashi," Bokuto asks, all wonder and awe. 

“If it were only me, I wouldn’t be,” Akaashi says simply. He shrugs, and his hand slips a bit from Bokuto’s, until they’re only hooked by one finger each. “But it’s not me. It’s you. So I’m sure.”

Bokuto’s gaze is unbreakable. He takes all of Akaashi’s hand back into his, and presses gently. “It’s us.” 

It’s Akaashi’s second year of high school,

and everything buzzes with potential.

* * *

That night in bed, Akaashi opens his journal and closes it again, uncaps and caps his pen.

There is a word for this.

Just one.

But Akaashi doesn't write it. 

Akaashi puts the journal away and turns off the light;

he hopes for a good ending. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Staring straight into a star is one thing; 
> 
> when the star stares back,
> 
> it’s another.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was snowing when I finished this chapter! I hope you enjoy. <3

Practice ends early on account of heavy snow.

Bokuto’s winter coat is halfway on, halfway off; he’s missing a glove.

His smile is brilliant.

Akaashi shakes his head, reaching for Bokuto’s buttons. “You’re unbelievable,” he mutters, voice muffled thru his scarf.

“I have an idea, Akaashi,” Bokuto says, staring with his big, golden eyes, which is largely unhelpful to Akaashi.

“Sounds foreboding.” Akaashi fumbles with the coat clasps, removing one of his own gloves to get a better handle on them. He works his way up the jacket, all the way to Bokuto’s chin.

“I wanna take you somewhere tomorrow,” Bokuto continues. Still staring. Very unhelpful.

“Doubly foreboding.” Akaashi squints. “In all this snow, Bokuto-san?” He slips his hand back into its glove.

“Well, yeah!” Bokuto’s smile grows, all crooked confidence. “It’s your birthday, Akaashi!”

“Ah.” Akaashi blinks, ducking his gaze. “That’s true, I suppose.”

(Staring straight into a star is one thing;

when the star stares back,

it’s another.)

Akaashi has a theory, so he tests it; he reaches a hand into Bokuto’s coat pocket and— _ah_ —there he finds the missing glove. He takes great care in pulling the fabric over Bokuto’s fingers, lingers on his wrist.

He can see their breath in the small space between them. Bokuto breathes in, and breathes out.

* * *

Akaashi has trouble falling asleep that night, too distracted by all the falling snow; shadows drift along the floor, across his sheets, and atop his hand.

* * *

Sometime in the morning a knock on the door pulls Akaashi out from his deep slumber.

“Hm,” he mumbles, like a _yes?_ sort of hm,

and then Bokuto Koutarou’s barreling into his room like a puppy let off-leash.

Hallucination, Akaashi immediately decides. Definitely not the real—

“Happy birthday to _youuuuuu,_ ” Bokuto sings loudly and terribly and with all of his being, “happy birthday to _youuuuuuu_ ,” and he crouches beside Akaashi’s bed, “happy birthday dear Akaaa- _shiiiiii,_ ” revealing a small to-go coffee cup from behind his back, steam still billowing from its lid, “happy birthday to _youuuuuuuu!”_

Akaashi blinks several times, eyes sticky with sleep and disbelief.

“Birthday cocoa,” Bokuto explains, lifting the cup for good measure. He passes it carefully into Akaashi’s hands. “Your mom let me in.”

The cup warms his whole body, very much real.   
  
“Thank you Bokuto-san,” Akaashi croaks, leaning up from the bed. He blows softly at the cocoa’s ribbons of steam. He repeats, softly, “Birthday cocoa.”

“For your birthday,” Bokuto explains again, dripping with sincerity.

Akaashi’s too exhausted to keep himself from grinning. “I’m sensing a pattern.”   
  
Bokuto bends and lays his chin on his hands at the sheets of Akaashi’s bed, and Akaashi finds it more than a little strange to be looking down to him, instead of up. “I’m really happy,” Bokuto says, inexplicably. Unbelievably.

Akaashi blows at steam, his cheeks warming. “Are we sure it’s not _your_ birthday, Bokuto-san?”

Bokuto nods, beaming. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

* * *

They take the bus to Akaashi’s Secret Birthday Destination, I Won’t Tell You Where It Is Until We Get There, Don’t Try To Ask Me About It Akaashi Because I Definitely Won’t Tell You, It’s The Bookstore Akaashi!, We’re Going To Get Some Birthday Books! At The Bookstore! For Your Birthday!

Akaashi straightens in his seat, birthday cocoa still clutched to his chest. “Really?”

“Yeah!” Bokuto nods eagerly. “Figured we could just spend the afternoon there or something. If you want!”

If he wants.

In truth, Akaashi feels about ready to burst with feelings that are very much inappropriate for a bus ride; overwhelming joy, and profound affection, and immense gratitude, and sweeping, stupendous, mind-boggling—

Akaashi merely nods, like a _yes, alright,_ sort of nod,

and Bokuto clenches his fists, full of pride.

Akaashi wants.

* * *

It’s very warm inside the shop; Bokuto and Akaashi shut the door to keep the icy flurry out.

Akaashi scans the aisles. They might be the only two people in the entire store, or the world.

“We’ve got the whole place to ourselves!” Bokuto hoots, uncanny as always. “I really do have the best ideas, Akaashi.”

Akaashi tugs his scarf loose with two fingers. He brings the birthday cocoa to his lips; maybe its sweetness is what makes Akaashi feel so generous: “I agree, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto lights up like a Christmas tree.

Why the hell not, Akaashi thinks. It’s his birthday, after all.

* * *

Akaashi wanders through the store, and Bokuto wanders, too, passing back and forth in Akaashi’s peripheral like a smiley, silver blur.

He spots Bokuto reading manga, and flipping through the pages of a cookbook.

Bokuto disappears at times, then reappears with books to show Akaashi, ones with bright covers or silly titles. He laughs at puppy themed calendars, points out the setter dogs.

Sometimes he hovers over Akaashi’s shoulder, and silently reads along with whatever’s in his hands.

“What kinds of books are you going to write, Akaashi,” Bokuto asks.

“It’s very difficult to get published, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi replies, dragging his finger across the spines of a long shelf full of fiction.

“Not if your book has volleyball!” Bokuto offers. “And a lot of action, maybe, and a dog. And a really good ending.”

“If only you could be my publisher, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says with a tiny grin.

Bokuto rests his head on Akaashi’s shoulder; “I think everyone loves good endings.”

* * *

Akaashi settles on just one book; Bokuto insists on buying it. “A birthday book?” Akaashi suggests, relinquishing his novel.

Bokuto winks. “You’re smarter than you look, Akaashi.” He giddily heads to the register, but returns with two books in tow. He presents them proudly.

“What’s this?” Akaashi turns the second book over, finding that it’s actually—

 _ah_ —

“I know you like notebooks, Akaashi!” Bokuto announces. He taps the cover; “This one’s got an owl.”

Akaashi marvels; the little blue owl sits on a branch, but the branch is the shape of a pencil. Above it float the words: _DEAR JOURNOWL_ in yellow.

“That’s quite funny,” Akaashi murmurs, tracing the bold letters.

And Bokuto laughs. “I thought so too!”

Akaashi usually has the words;

thoughtful, clever, cutting words;

but while holding the journal with the little blue owl in his hands,

Akaashi hardly has any.

* * *

Akaashi wants to win Nationals. 

Akaashi wants to toss to Bokuto Koutarou until his arms fall off.

He wants to go on morning runs,

and ride the train,

and pick up the phone,

over and over and over again;

Akaashi never wants this year to end.

He wants to look and always see Bokuto’s eyes looking back,

to always be _welcomed_.

Akaashi wants.

* * *

On the bus ride home, snow flying past the window;

“Did you have a good birthday, Akaashi?”

Akaashi yawns, and he nods, and rubs at his eyes. “It was very good, Bokuto-san.” 

The best he’s ever had, of course.

He should say that, Akaashi thinks; he should let him know.

He remembers the day in the fall when he’d held a star’s hand.

Akaashi rubs at his eyes again, rubs harder and harder.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Bokuto takes Akaashi’s wrist and pulls it down gently. He studies Akaashi for a moment, leaning in. Then he points: “Thinking face.”

Akaashi shakes his head. “Birthday face,” he corrects,

and Bokuto laughs and laughs.

* * *

That evening, wrapped in a blanket, Akaashi brandishes his most favorite pen and reaches for the blue owl journal. Shadows drift along the floor, across his sheets, and atop his writing hand. He opens it to the first page—

ah _._

A note, from Bokuto, scribbled out in blue.

_“Happy Birthday Akaashi!_

_My genius ideas for your first book:_

_-beautiful owl adventure_

_-Mikasa volleyball gets lost in the big city. (I like this.)_

_-a story about best friends_

_-Bokuto”_

_Ah._

Akaashi sits for a while, watching shadows drift. He breathes in, breathes out,

and he writes this.

_“Today was my 17th birthday._   
  
_It was wonderful._

_Bokuto somehow lost his glove again, put it somewhere other than his pocket. He is unbelievable._

_I love him.”_

  
  
Akaashi boldly underlines those words, his eyes and hands heavy with sleep:

_“ I love him.”_

That’s the word.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter what other people may say, we are the protagonists of the world.

Spring Interhigh.

Three rounds, quarter-finals, semi-finals,

finals.

“We’re gonna win ‘em all,” Bokuto says, eyes fixed with brutal focus.

* * *

Akaashi brandishes his most favorite pen.

He writes:

_“No matter what other people may say,”_

* * *

He was unremarkable, dispassionate.

He was adequate, if that.

Mori Junior High’s so-so setter, standing in the shadow of a shooting star.

* * *

“We’re gonna win ‘em all,” Bokuto says, steadfast,

and with every passing minute, it feels less and less like a trick;

* * *

_“No matter what other people may say,”_ Akaashi writes, white-knuckled,

* * *

it feels less like a cruel lie, and more like the truth...

* * *

“Nothing is impossible,” Bokuto says—

(Akaashi doesn’t understand Bokuto Koutarou, not at all,

but he loves him—)

“—just really improbable!” 

Akaashi laughs. "Good point." 

* * *

...Akaashi Keiji could be _remarkable_ , just as he is. _Significant,_ even. 

* * *

  
  
Bokuto calls, eyes bright.

* * *

_Deserving._

* * *

Akaashi answers,

pours all his soul.

He wants.

He hopes.

He sits and writes:

_“No matter what other people may say, we are the protagonists of the world.”_

* * *

The whistle blows.

* * *

They lose the final set of the final game of his second ever season of volleyball, and Akaashi understands one small, certain thing:

Bokuto’s story won’t end here.

For Akaashi, that should be enough.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I can keep secrets, Akaashi! I can! I have a lot of tact. The most tact. You taught me that word."

Akaashi writes in short, neat strokes.

He writes reminders to himself (Drink Water, Take Breaks, Finish Essay, Be Sure To Stretch),

and to Bokuto (Drink Water, Take Breaks, Finish Essay, Remember Your Umbrella, Think Before You Speak, Drink More Water, Double Check For Umbrella, Please Be Sure To Stretch, Be Careful Bokuto-san). 

He writes down significant dates in a journal (a birthday journal, with a little blue owl).

And in the spring of Akaashi’s second year of high school, he writes a letter to his best friend. It sits in his backpack patiently, waiting for the perfect day and precisely right moment to be read.

* * *

In a way, it’s like nothing’s changed; club practice continues, and Bokuto still plays every day. He gives Akaashi a look, and they stay late for more tosses, but then they share another look and opt for yakiniku instead; they walk to the park and sit on swings; they run to the bookstore before it closes; they head to Akaashi’s house and wrap up their homework; Bokuto stays the night.

Akaashi sits on his bed and watches Bokuto flit about the bedroom like a clumsy hummingbird, flipping through books and rolling around on the floor and looking and reaching to him.

He thinks idly of the letter sitting in his backpack.

“Akaaaashi,” Bokuto says, shuffling on his knees across the floor. He scratches the tip of his nose, cheeks a little pink. “I forgot my toothbrush again.”

Akaashi huffs. “I reminded you twice, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto’s deflates, forehead resting flat on Akaashi’s mattress. “I know, Akaashi, I’m sorry. I always pack in a rush!”

“You rush through everything.” Akaashi leans forward, deathly serious. “You’re a rushing ace.”

Bokuto’s expression does gymnastics, cartwheeling through pride and embarrassment. And Akaashi grins, lifting a hand to card through Bokuto’s hair; its gel can hardly keep anymore, and the silver strands curl easily in Akaashi’s long fingers. Bokuto smiles, all cheeky, like he’s never been happier. So many things make Bokuto happy, Akaashi thinks; how wildly different they are in that regard.

(Though Akaashi is certainly happy now.)

Akaashi finds an extra toothbrush for Bokuto and sets their alarm for seven sharp. He hugs the edge of his bed, watching Bokuto tell stories on the futon below. Something about a dramatic show he watched, and all the snacks he ate as he watched it. He talks with his hands and reaches for Akaashi’s, squeezing them to make a super-duper important point.

Akaashi tries his best to keep his eyes open and fixed onto Bokuto’s, like spring will last forever if he never falls asleep.

* * *

“I wrote this for you, Bokuto-san.”

Akaashi shoves the letter to his bathroom mirror, creasing the envelope with nervous thumbs.

The mirror doesn’t reply; it just reflects a silly boy.

* * *

How do all the other people in the world become more than friends, Akaashi wonders, sitting on a planter in the outdoor mall. He sips on fruit tea and chews on the straw. _More than friends_. What a strange phrase.

Weren’t he and Bokuto already _more?_

The letter taunts him from within his backpack, weighing him down like a tiny anchor.

Bokuto returns from his bathroom trip, bounding like a rabbit. “Akaashi! Let’s check out the running store next…!“ He looks to Akaashi’s tea, some grand epiphany flashing over his face. He blinks. “My bubble tea.”

Akaashi rolls his eyes up to the cherry blossom trees as Bokuto darts back the way he came, tripping on concrete. Yes, he and Bokuto were already _more_ —  
  
Bokuto returns, thrusting the boba cup high in the air. “Crisis averted, Akaashi!”

Akaashi sips on his tea. “Oh good, I was really worried.”  
  
“Akaaaaaashi!”

(But Akaashi wants more, and _more,_ and more still.)

* * *

“I love you, Bokuto-san.”

Akaashi bows forward with the letter.

The bathroom mirror petrifies him with a quiet, critical stare.

* * *

One Sunday evening, cherry blossoms drifting in lazy paths past the window, Bokuto Koutarou calls Akaashi on the phone.

“Hello, Bokuto-san.”

Recruiters, Akaashi, there’s some recruiters who called—

“For volleyball?”

Yes, a whole bunch of recruiters, one’s even from the V.League, and it’s just like you said, Akaashi—

“Ah, that’s. That’s wonderful, Bokuto-san.”

It’s exactly like you said—

“It was inevitable, really.”  
  
You always believed in me, Akaashi—

“How could I not.”

Thank you, Akaashi.

“Please remember to finish your essay, Bokuto-san.”

* * *

“I…” Akaashi swallows. “This is…” He pinches his brow.

Akaashi looks to the letter, and to the Akaashi in the mirror.

* * *

It’s like summertime is laughing, that’s how beautiful graduation day is. White clouds fleck a perfect sky, and Bokuto’s eyes shine perfectly, too.

Akaashi doesn’t cry, not even once. He thanks the third years with a bow.

"Akaaaaashi!” Bokuto bawls, and Konoha and Komi and Sarukui, even Washio, too, they all capture Akaashi with a hug. He feels Bokuto’s smile on his neck and Sarukui’s hand in his hair, and breaking through all the limbs and laughs comes Shirofuku’s chiding: “Don’t crush him to death, he’s got a team to lead!”, so the boys finally untangle themselves.

“Akaashi, I wanna say something,” Konoha announces, keeping an arm wrapped tightly around his shoulder. “Everyone should hear this, listen up.”

“Speech!” Sarukui shouts; “Booooo,” Komi jeers.

Akaashi squirms a bit under Konoha’s hold, his eyes darting to Bokuto for rescue, but Bokuto just laughs and bites his lip, looking ready to burst with delight.

Konoha lifts a hand in the air like he’s addressing a crowd of loyal subjects. His voice carries across the courtyard: “To our kick-ass setter with the face of a damn angel—”

“Konoha-senpai, please,” Akaashi mutters, “you really don’t have to—”   
  
“Oh, I have to, Akaashi, I do,” Konoha says, and he looks to the third years again with a crooked grin; “Our voice of reason with an iron gut, the infallible emo owl whisperer himself!”  
  
The whole group laughs, Bokuto especially, echoing the word “infallible” to himself with the tiniest bit of awe. Akaashi hides his blush with his fingers and wishes all of this would end, while also sort of wishing it would never end, and that Konoha might toast to him forever.

“I know you hold yourself to high standards, Akaashi. You held us all to them. Him most of all,” and Konoha points a finger to Bokuto, who nods enthusiastically. “And it was hard, you know? Keeping up with you two. I thought I was gonna die a couple times, it was so hard. But I… I don’t know. I didn’t have any expectations for my third year of high school other than to get through it. Akaashi,”

and Konoha looks to him so kindly, gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze,

“I had a lot of fun this year. Thank you for being my captain.”

Akaashi steels himself (he will not cry, not once): “Vice-captain,” he corrects, giving a short nod.

And the third years attack him all over again, all laughs and flailing limbs.

They share jokes, and well-wishes, and eventually take their leave,

all, of course, save for two.

The letter cries out from somewhere deep in Akaashi’s backpack; the perfect day, the right moment, summer _bursting_ , potential _buzzing_ —

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, voice so careful and measured.  
  
Bokuto only nods in reply, hands buried in is pockets. His smile is small, like the volume’s been dialed down, and he waits in the sun for Akaashi.

Cicadas sing. 

Akaashi swallows. Straightens. “Bokuto-san,” he repeats;

he should say it, and let him know;

pour his soul;

give his all;

“Would you like to come over for dinner,” he weakly offers instead. 

And Bokuto grins. “You read my mind, Akaashi.”

* * *

There’s a slow stretch to the evening. Akaashi’s mother asks Bokuto about all of his plans (try-outs, training, just lots and lots of volleyball, Okaasan!). She laughs at his earnestness and places her hand atop Akaashi’s, giving his fingers a tender stroke.

Akaashi picks at his chicken. His soup goes cold.

“Will you be staying the night, Bokuto-kun?” his mother asks. Akaashi takes her plate and Bokuto’s, delivering them to the kitchen sink.

“Good question, Okaasan!” (That earns another laugh.) Bokuto twists around in his chair, its feet scraping along the floor with a squeak. “Akaashi?”

Akaashi doesn’t look up from the dishes, his eyes tracing suds as they circle the drain. “I’ll go grab your toothbrush, Bokuto-san.”

* * *

List of Things That Could Happen if Akaashi Confesses (in no particular order): 

-Bokuto may reject him. 

-Bokuto may reject him and never speak to him again. 

-Bokuto may reject him, never speak to him again, and tear the letter in two. 

-He could laugh. 

-The world as Akaashi knows it could end.

-Or not;

-Bokuto could also take Akaashi's hand, 

-and look to him, _welcoming_.

* * *

Bokuto's thumb presses the space between Akaashi's thick brows. "School's over, Akaashi! No more thinking!" 

Akaashi blinks, squinting through the darkness in his bedroom to Bokuto. They sit on the floor, backs against Akaashi's bed, dressed in loose t-shirts and plaid pajama pants. He rubs his forehead where Bokuto's thumb was pressed, frowning slightly. "I'm sorry." 

"Akaashi," Bokuto sighs. He scoots a bit closer in the dark. "Are you..." He looks around the room as if someone dastardly might be listening; "... _stressed?"_

Akaashi hums. Stressed; yes, that's the word. He clasps his fingers, holding nighttime in his hands. "I am a stress _ace_ , Bokuto-san." 

Bokuto remains very still—impressively so, for him. "Are you joking, Akaashi?" he asks, worry swallowing his voice. It twists Akaashi's insides, to hear Bokuto sound that way.

"It's nothing, Bokuto-san. I promise," Akaashi tries, twisting at his fingers. 

"It's nothing?" Bokuto leans in closer now, trying to lock on to Akaashi's gaze. "Akaashi." 

"Please forget about it, Bokuto-san." 

"Tell me why you're stressed!" Akaashi feels a warm hand grip his elbow. "Please. I won't tell anyone." 

Akaashi actually laughs, holding his head in his hands. "You're not exactly known for incredible secret-keeping skills, you know." Bokuto scoffs, totally offended. "The exact opposite, in fact." Bokuto scoffs again. 

"I can keep secrets, Akaashi! I can! I have a lot of tact. The _most_ tact. You taught me that word." Bokuto searches Akaashi's eyes with his own golden ones, imploring, and glowing, even here in the dark. When Akaashi doesn't reply, he urges, "You know you can trust me! You're my best friend, Akaashi."

Akaashi's thankful for the night, and the cover it provides him. He wipes at his eyes, cursing silently.

"Akaashi?" Bokuto breathes. 

He can let him know this, at least:

"I will miss you very much, Bokuto-san," Akaashi says, voice catching. He presses harder and harder into his eyes, erasing the tears before they can form. "You are so troublesome," and remarkable, and generous, and _precious_ , and all of these many wonderful words written down in a letter that you'll never, ever read, "so unbelievably troublesome, and I," Akaashi swallows, "I wish that I," could follow you, could toss to you, could be something so much _more_ with you, 

"Akaashi." 

"I wish I weren't," me, unexceptional, and _afraid_ , "I'm just, I can't—” 

Akaashi's pulled into Bokuto's chest and the two completely tip over, crashing together gracelessly on the thin futon below. 

"Bokuto-san?" Akaashi says, lips pressed to loose t-shirt. Bokuto squeezes him tightly.

"I'm not leaving you, Keiji," Bokuto assures, his breath blowing soft and warm against Akaashi's forehead. "I promise you, I'm not. Wherever I go, you'll be there with me."

The sound of Akaashi's heart pounds all throughout the house, down every hall and corner; he wonders if it will wake his mother, the beating's just so loud. Akaashi blinks tears into Bokuto's shirt: "How are you so sure." 

"Because it's us," Bokuto answers, simple and certain.

Stars shine through the bedroom window.

Akaashi doesn't understand the boy he loves—

"Please don't be stressed, Akaashi," Bokuto says with a yawn.

"Alright," Akaashi whispers. He shuts his eyes. "I won't." 

—but he tries his best to believe him,

while the letter sits and waits. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to be continued! :> i will be a lot busier in the coming weeks but will try my best to keep updating as regularly as i can. thank you very much for reading so far. <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me the story, Akaashi!” 
> 
> “I can’t,” Akaashi bites down his grin, “it’s a secret.”

Bokuto never texts, he just calls.

“Akaaaaashi!”

“Hello, Bokuto-san.”

“How was school today? What’d you have for lunch? How was practice?”

“Please slow down, Bokuto-san. School was fine. I had curry for lunch.”

“And practice, Akaashi, how was practice? Oh, curry sounds really good!”  
  
“It was good. The curry, I mean. Practice was fine.”

“Just fine, Akaashi?” Akaashi can hear the deep frown through the phone.  
  
“I need to get stronger.”

“Oh, like me, right? Like your old senpai!”  
  
“I said _stronger_ , not stranger, Bokuto-san.”  
  
“Akaaaaashi!”

Akaashi covers his smile, even though Bokuto can’t see it.

The sun soaks Akaashi’s bedroom in a sweet, pink glow.

* * *

Akaashi settles into a small booth in the back of a busy cafe, his headphones rendering the din around him into a comfortable, low hum.

He pulls the blue owl journal from his backpack with a silent reverence, along with his favorite pen. He straightens in his seat, rolling his writing hand’s wrist in small circles. The owl stares at him with kind, familiar eyes. Akaashi flips the cover open, revealing Bokuto’s handwritten birthday note.

His eyes trace over the words he’d memorized months and months ago;

_My genius ideas for your first book:_

_-beautiful owl adventure_

Akaashi squints. He’s poured over this sentiment alone for many sleepless nights on end; what were Bokuto-san’s intentions here? Is the owl in question sentient? Is Bokuto-san the owl? Is the owl beautiful, or the adventure, or both? All things Akaashi’s never dared ask, despite his mild curiosity.

_-Mikasa volleyball gets lost in the big city. (I like this.)_

No explanation is needed for this idea, or for why Bokuto likes it. (Akaashi absolutely doesn’t smile, though his nose wrinkles a bit.)

_-a story about best friends_

Akaashi’s eyes flit over the words once, then twice.

He uncaps his most favorite pen.

* * *

At practice, Akaashi calls the names of his teammates—Onaga, Anahori, the new first years,

and yet,

there’s never quite the same rush, that buzz in his skin.

In Akaashi’s third year of high school volleyball, his tosses are flawless. They just don’t connect, or at least,

not really.

* * *

Akaashi glances to his phone, and at the same time, it rings.

“Scary,” Akaashi mutters, lifting the phone to his ear. “Hello, Bokuto-san.”

“Akaaaaashi!”

“It’s lunchtime, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi gestures with his onigiri, and takes a bite for good measure.

“Oh! I didn’t mean to bother you!” Bokuto’s voice is loud and scratchy and sweet. The familiar squeak of shoes on gym flooring echo behind him; someone calls for a ball. “Am I bothering you?”

The spot in the grass by the tree is empty, save for shadows and dandelions. Akaashi takes another bite of food. “I’ve taken to writing at lunchtime, that’s all.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, then a sharp intake of breath. “Writing! Writing in my notebook?”

Akaashi eyes the blue owl in his lap. “I write in a few notebooks.”

“But my notebook is the best one, right Akaashi? Wait, what are you writing!” Bokuto is chewing something, too; something crisp. His mouth is full when he announces, “I’m very curious!”

“Ha,” Akaashi laughs, fingers curling around his favorite pen. He stretches his legs out a bit, into the empty spot by the lunchtime tree. “I’m writing secrets. Very deep and dark ones that you’d never guess in a million years. You’ll be curious forever, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi sighs very theatrically.

Bokuto spits and coughs. “Akaashi! No! No, Akaashi, you have to tell me!” Someone behind Bokuto laughs.  
  
“Oh, I just thought of another one,” Akaashi mumbles, and he mimes scribbling in his lap. 

“Akaashi?!”

“ _Bokuto…san… must… never… discover… this…_ ”  
  
“AKAASHI!” Bokuto cries. “You’re teasing me!”

Akaashi hides his mouth with his blazer’s sleeve. (It’s a good thing Bokuto isn’t sitting in his usual lunchtime spot; Akaashi’s smile gives away every secret he’s never told). “I am teasing you, yes.”

He opens the blue owl journal in his lap. Sunlight dapples its pages.

Akaashi’s voice comes out quite soft. “I’m writing a story, Bokuto-san.”

A gasp rings through his ears. “Tell me the story, Akaashi!”

“I can’t,” Akaashi bites down his grin, “it’s a secret.”

* * *

There’s a practice tournament in the fall in Tokyo; Nekoma is there, and Karasuno, too, and for the first time all school year, Akaashi feels…

 _Light_. That’s the word.

The matches are all close, fantastically so, perhaps for Fukurodani most of all. Akaashi’s team is practically spilling over with first years, and though they’re all quite capable players—talented, even—their lack of experience still shows loudly on the scoreboards.

Akaashi dabs his tank across his upper lip as Hinata ducks beneath the net. “Akaashi-san! That was a great game!” He points a finger right to Akaashi’s chin, his opposite hand clenched into a tiny fist. “We’ll get you next time for sure though!”

Akaashi nods. “It was very close. I noticed your receives have improved a bit, Hinata.”

Hinata puffs up his chest like a little bird might, all obvious pride. “Gah! Thank you, Akaashi-san!” The way Hinata glows in broad daylight reminds Akaashi so vividly of Bokuto.

 _A worthy disciple,_ Akaashi notes, feeling something warm.

Hinata points somewhere behind Akaashi, his lips puckered up. “Akaashi-san,” he mutters discreetly, “I think your kohai are staring.”

Akaashi follows Hinata’s gaze to a nearby cluster of first years, their eyes wide and shining. He blinks, expectant.

One of the first years snaps to attention then, giving a nervous bow. “Ah! Sorry, senpai! It’s nothing! It’s just that! We were just…!”

Another first year cuts in, voice awed: “We’ve never seen you smile so much.”

“Ah,” Akaashi replies. And then, a thoughtful, “Hm.” He idly twists at his fingers.

“It’s ‘cuz my receives were so amazing!” Hinata announces. Tsukishima barks with laughter somewhere in the gym.

Akaashi prefers to leave it at that.

* * *

The bell over the cafe’s entrance jingles and Shirofuku bounds inside; her boots thump their way to Akaashi’s table in the back corner. He feels infinitely grateful for her friendly face, and the casual, knowing smile dusting her lips. “Shirofuku-san,” he says, standing to bow.

“C’mere,” she says, pulling Akaashi in for a hug. Her hand ruffles through his hair. “Missed you.”

Akaashi simply nods into her scarf, giving her shoulders a light press. He feels strangely overcome by something that he can’t really name, something he pushes away deep down inside him. “Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice.”

Shirofuku laughs and looks at him fondly, though Akaashi’s completely missed the joke. “You’re welcome, Akaashi.” They take their seats. Shirofuku tugs her scarf loose and picks up the menu. “So what’s this big favor? You in trouble? Need some money?”

“What?” Akaashi grips at his backpack defensively. “Of course not.”

“Bokuto giving you a hard time?” Shirofuku flips through images of pink and green desserts.

 _Always,_ Akaashi thinks, or maybe says very much aloud according to Shirofuku’s sudden accute scrutiny. A blush curls up his neck as he rifles through his backpack. “Right, so, this favor.” He clears his throat, pulling a modest stack of neatly stapled papers from his bag. His palm smoothes its cover sheet flat. “I’ve, ah,” Akaashi’s mouth goes all dry, and he swallows hard. “I wrote something.”

“Something?” Shirofuku raises a brow.

“A story,” Akaashi amends, sliding the stack across their table. “It’s a very rough first draft. I hardly had the time to sweep through it for spelling errors,” and as Shirofuku begins to flip through its pages, Akaashi's heartbeat quickens, “and I’m not satisfied with the ending yet, but there’s something, at least.”

Shirofuku’s eyes dart back and forth, back and forth, down all of Akaashi’s typed nonsense. “What's the genre,” she says, her eyes never lifting from the pages in her hand.

Akaashi swallows. “It’s fantasy. A boy befriends a falling star.” Akaashi tugs at the fingers of his writing hand. “And there’s no rush. I’d appreciate your honest feedback.”

Shirofuku’s brow furrows at something she’s reading (a grammatical error, no doubt, or perhaps one of those really talky chunks of dialogue, or maybe—), then looks up to Akaashi with a gentle curve to her lips. “You really don’t mind?”

Akaashi blinks. “Of course not. I need the help. I sometimes get a bit,” Akaashi searches for the words, “lost,” he decides. “I need to get used to sharing my thoughts more often. If I want any chance at being a published author someday, that is.”

Shirofuku’s smile grows wider. She pats the pages in her hands. “Consider it done, Akaashi-sensei.”

The laugh Shirofuku makes when Akaashi’s ears go pink rings all throughout the cafe; she orders a frilly cocoa and cookies, and insists that they share.

* * *

Bokuto never texts, he just calls.  
  
But during lunch late in November, he texts. The messages pop up onto Akaashi’s phone screen one by one by one.

 _“akaaaaaashi!”_ , first. Then,

“ _can’t call today :(( i’m sorry!!”_ , which Akaashi reads twice, and then,

“ _i hope u write a ton!!”_ , and then,

“ _make good tosses :D”_ , and then,

“ _will talk soon”_ ,

and then nothing,

which Akaashi is not surprised by at all. Bokuto’s trying out for a Division 1 team this weekend. He’s likely very busy. He has to focus, and give his all. Division 1 players don’t waste time on the phone.

But Akaashi still feels himself frowning through heavy mouthfuls of rice.

* * *

While Akaashi waits for Shirofuku to finish reviewing his pages, and while he waits to hear how Bokuto’s try-out has gone, and while he waits on his own for the train in the morning, and while he waits, and waits, and waits,

he pushes himself just a little bit harder. Studies for an hour longer at night, sometimes two. His muscles cry out during practice. In the locker room his head spins a little.

Onaga squeezes Akaashi’s shoulder before leaving practice one night. “Want a ride home, Akaashi? My mom’s here.”

“Ah,” Akaashi huffs, his sweater half on, half off. “Thank you for the offer. I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Onaga says, and it’s less of a question, really, because Onaga seems sure.

But Akaashi just nods, struggling through the neck of his sweater. “Thank you. I’m sure.”

He waits for the train, alone.

* * *

“Keiji?” Akaashi’s mother calls from down the stairs. “Any news from Bokuto-kun?”

Akaashi glances to his phone, wills it to ring. All it offers is a reflection of his silly, sorry face. “None yet,” Akaashi says, not quite loud enough.

“Have you tried calling?” his mother wonders. “I’m just dying to know!” He hears her pad into the living room, humming with glee. The vacuum rumbles to life and drones away through Sunday chores below.

Akaashi lets out a short puff of air. It tousles his bangs, and he pets them back in place. He didn’t want to explain all of the many intricacies of this situation to his mother; Bokuto is the one who calls, not Akaashi. Bokuto calls, and mostly never texts, and that’s just the way things are.

Still, Akaashi’s gaze lingers on the silent, stationary phone.

His fingers twitch.

But suddenly, uncannily, his phone is alight with an incoming call from—

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi rushes, phone gripped tightly to his cheek.

“Akaaaaashi!” Bokuto crows. Akaashi can feel the loud smile against his ear. “How are you!”

“Bokuto-san, the try-out,” Akaashi urges. He sits on his knees, elbows pressed hard into his bedroom’s low table.

Akaashi hears a muffled laugh. “Eh? Try-out? What try-out?”

“Don’t be cruel, Bokuto-san!” Akaashi can’t help but raise his voice. “Have you made the team?” His elbows ache.

“Well,” Bokuto says, “I have good news, and bad news, and then good news again.”

Akaashi waits, breath held, and decides that he truly hates waiting; he never wants to wait for anything again in all his life. But it’s Bokuto, so, he waits.

Bokuto lets out a nervous laugh across the line. “I made the team, Akaashi.”  
  
Akaashi nearly snaps his phone in two. “You made the team?”  
  
“I made it.”  
  
“Oh,” Akaashi breathes. He shuts his eyes tight, mouthing a silent _thank you_ into the air. “That’s great news, Bokuto-san. You’ve signed on, then?”

“Mm-hm,” Bokuto says, “right before I called you!”

Something about that deeply pleases Akaashi. He lets the feeling seep. “So you mean to tell me that I’m on the phone,” Akaashi draws the words out slowly, “with a _professional_ volleyball player?”

Akaashi listens to Bokuto’s silent processing, biting back a grin. He wishes so badly for Bokuto to be in the room with him, to watch as his eyes boggle at sly praise. (Akaashi _wants._ )

“Yes! You are! You _are_ , Akaashi!” comes the shout over the phone, halfway sounding like he still needs to convince himself. “I’m a professional!”

Akaashi laughs. He loves him. (Correction: he loves a _professional_ volleyball player.) But a thought stirs; “You said there was bad news.”

“Oh, right.” Bokuto’s voice withers on the vine. “Well. So. The thing is. Well.”  
  
“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi urges. (He loves Bokuto. He also wants to throttle him.)

Bokuto makes some kind of frustrated grunt. “It’s just that, they gave me my team schedule. And I’m gonna be traveling on your birthday, Akaashi.”

_Ah._

Akaashi rocks back a bit, folding his knees to his chest. “Is that really all, Bokuto-san?” he asks, and he can’t help but laugh a little, though the laugh is sad and small.

“You’re important to me, Akaashi,” Bokuto says simply.

Akaashi squeezes his knees a bit tighter. “I see.” His heart swells.

“But I have more good news, remember?”

“Oh.” Akaashi shifts a bit on the floor. “Alright.”

“Have you and your mom had dinner yet?”

“Ah, no,” Akaashi says slowly, glancing to the hall. “Why do you—“

“Great! ‘Cuz I’m on my way with cake! Happy very-early-birthday, Akaashi!”

Akaashi blinks, once, then twice. “You’re coming here?”

“If that’s alright with you!” Bokuto says, and of course it’s alright, of course he knows that.

“That’s fine,” Akaashi says. “See you soon.”  
  
“See you!”

Akaashi hangs up the phone. “Cake isn’t dinner,” he mutters to himself. And oh,

he _loves_ him.  
  
“Okaa-san,” Akaashi calls out. He springs to his feet. “Bokuto-san is coming. With cake.”

“Ah! Has he made the team Keiji? Is it celebration cake?” his mother shouts over the vacuum.

“Something like that,” Akaashi laughs. He shuffles down the stairs.

Bokuto’s arrival is like a whirlwind’s; he blows through the house with cake and laughter and highly accurate re-enactments of cross shots. He keeps looking to Akaashi from across the table, like Akaashi’s the bright and brilliant one. Like it really is his birthday. The cake’s icing stains all of their lips a dark blue.

Akaashi’s mother congratulates Bokuto over and over; she claps her hands. Akaashi does, too.

Bokuto explains that he can’t stay too long; he’s packing for Osaka, where his new team’s dorms will be—506 kilometers away. Akaashi has had the distance logged in his journal for a few days, now; his stomach turns at the thought.

“Do your very best, Bokuto-kun,” Akaashi’s mother says, reaching up on her tip-toes to give him a hug at the door. “Our star.”

Bokuto’s cheeks turn rosy in the dark. “Thank you, okaa-san. Goodnight.”

Akaashi’s mother nods, then gives Akaashi a secret smile. She heads inside the house, shutting the door softly behind her.

Out in the dark, Akaashi considers Bokuto discreetly; how he’s gotten taller somehow, and stronger. How his eyes still look the way they did on Akaashi’s first day of high school volleyball. How he’s actually _here_ now, not just a tinny voice over the phone, and it hits Akaashi so late, like an aftershock;

this year has been so lonely.

Bokuto smiles, a little weakly, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Happy very-early-birthday, Akaashi.”

Akaashi rolls his eyes. “I could technically wish the same for you, you know. Happy very, very, very, very, very, very early birthday, Bokuto-san. See?”  
  
Bokuto’s mouth parts a bit in irritatingly adorable awe. “You’re so smart Akaashi,” Bokuto says, and he wags a finger, something dangerous sparking in his eyes. “A genius, even! That means I could wish you a happy very-early-birthday every single day of the year!”  
  
“No,” Akaashi crosses his arms, “Bokuto-san, that’s not what I—“

“And you’d love that, right Akaashi? You’d think I was the very best!”

“No,” Akaashi lies. He feels his facade crumble pitifully. “I would absolutely hate that.”

“This is gonna be great. How many voicemails can a phone hold at once, Akaashi?”

“I don’t want to know.”  
  
“Imagine all the birthday cards!”  
  
“So wasteful, Bokuto-san.”  
  
“It was your idea, Akaashi!” Bokuto’s smile is as bright as the moon.

Akaashi’s lips still taste like icing.

(It gives him terrible ideas, all of it: the icing, the moon, and Bokuto’s silly eyes,

and Akaashi’s so tired of _waiting_ ;

he loves him;

he _wants_ —)

“Please call once you’re home safe, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, ducking his gaze to the light blue sidewalk. “Congratulations. You’ve earned this.”

Bokuto blinks a bit, like he might’ve misheard Akaashi, or like there’s something more to be said. But then he just nods, stuffing his hands into his sweatpants pockets, lips curled in a lop-sided grin. “Thanks ‘Kaashi. Goodnight.”

Bokuto waves goodbye.

* * *

A text from Shirofuku, later that night:

  
_“just finished”_

Akaashi blinks, his eyes stinging with sleep. He thumbs a reply beneath the covers;

 _“Thank you for reading, Shirofuku-san. Would you like to meet up to discuss?”_  
  
He hits send.

Shirofuku types.

Akaashi types further; _“You could also text me your thoughts, whatever you’re comfortable with. I don’t want to take up too much more of your time.”_

He hits send.

Shirofuku continues to type.

Akaashi nearly falls asleep again by the time her replies arrive. First,

_“it’s perfect, akaashi._

_i really liked the ending”_ ,

and then, after that,

_“please tell him._

_you never know”._


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I just know you, Akaashi."

Shirofuku’s text whispers to Akaashi from his back pocket while he sits in class:

_“please tell him”_ ,

and while Akaashi leads the team through practice drills, Shirofuku’s text calls out from his gym bag:

_“you never know”_ ,

and if he’d read messages like that during the summer of his second year, maybe Akaashi could’ve answered them. Said, “Alright, I will.”

Things felt far more certain then.

When the new year arrives, all Akaashi prays for is to somehow make it through.

* * *

Akaashi writes in short, neat strokes.

He writes to-do lists, and reminders, and essays, and emails.

He fills out an internship application for a publisher’s literature department,

and under Name/Age he writes,

_“Akaashi Keiji, 18.”_

* * *

Bokuto describes his new dorms in great detail over the phone. Akaashi raises his voice a little bit when he responds, just to make doubly sure it carries all the way from Tokyo to Osaka.

“And there’s a big window, too,” Bokuto adds, “with a river outside it! I like that!”

Akaashi nods absently, jotting down notes for his English final. “A river,” he echoes. “I like that, too.” A shiver jolts up his arms and back; Akaashi paws for a blanket.

“You know, I think I can see your house from here, Akaashi.”

“You can, can you,” Akaashi laughs. He turns a page in his textbook. “Is your window even facing the proper direction for that?”

“Yeah. I have really great eyesight. Like, super great. My eyes are like big telescopes. See, that’s you in your room, right? Studying on a Saturday, with your thinking face.”

Akaashi tosses a glare to his bedroom window, a small square of blue sky. “Can you see me sticking my tongue out at you.”

Bokuto laughs in a way that makes Akaashi’s heart ache. “Akaashi,” he says, “I have an idea.”

“I need to study, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi replies; he should’ve hung up an hour ago. His grip on the blanket tightens.

“I know, I know. Just stand by your window real quick, it’ll only take a second. Five seconds.”

Akaashi sighs. He gets up and hobbles over to the window, still snugly bundled in blanket. “Alright. I’m at the window.”

Bokuto’s voice is close and warm in his ear. “Can you see me, Akaashi?” he asks.

Akaashi can’t help but laugh, bitterly. He could see a new apartment complex, and the tops of several trees, and a metal cell phone tower. (His mother had chosen this house for the park nearby and easy walk to the train, not the scenic Tokyo view.) “You have far better eyesight than me, Bokuto-san.”

“Akaaashi! Look harder!” Bokuto says, voice scratching a bit.

Akaashi buries his knuckles into his blanket’s woven fabric. “I have too much work to do, Bokuto-san, can we—”

“Please, Akaashi.”

And Akaashi melts.

He lets his gaze hover just above the treetops and the hazy blue mountains behind them. “Okay,” Akaashi breathes. “I see you.”

Bokuto hums into the speaker, tickling Akaashi’s ear. “Can you see me waving?”

A bird flutters past Akaashi’s window, its wings a flash of black and blue. In the distance he spots a train. And somewhere out beyond all that, yes, he sees Bokuto waving.

Akaashi lifts a hand to his window, letting some blanket slip. “I see you. Do you see me waving, too.”

Bokuto’s voice is low. “Yeah, I do.”

They still talk for an hour after.

* * *

“Ghosting” is the term that Kenma mentions.

“They receive a great many applications,” Akaashi reasons. He flexes the fingers of his writing hand. “It takes time to properly evaluate candidates, and read all their samples.” He pictures the story he wrote in the dead center of a very tall stack of papers, and a tireless editor scaling up its sides. “It could take a few months, even.”

Kenma glances up from his game for just a moment, one foot lazily propped on a volleyball. “You’re probably right,” he murmurs after some silence, returning his attention to the small screen.

Akaashi nods, content, then eyes the courts ahead, muscles aching dully. “I should head back to the hotel.” He collects his things and zips his parka. “Good luck tomorrow, Kenma-san.”

“You too,” Kenma says, and when Akaashi’s already several strides away, he adds, “good luck with the internship, Akaashi.”

Akaashi grips the strap of his gym bag, his fingers wrapped neatly with tape; amidst the throng of spectators at Spring Interhigh, he bows his head in thanks.

* * *

Anahori’s serve flies too wide and lands just outside the line, so in Akaashi’s third year of high school volleyball they lose the third round of Spring Interhigh.

Akaashi’s kohai approach him tearfully and thank him for his guidance.

Onaga hugs him tight.

A strong hand clasps his shoulder—his coach’s. He says, “Well done, Akaashi,” and smiles.

The bus ride home isn’t all that peaceful; the first years sing a song, some restaurant’s jingle.

Akaashi’s breath fogs up the window; shadows chase light atop his hands.

And volleyball ends in a blink, with no fanfare, or flourish.

It doesn’t satisfy Akaashi’s soul;

it isn’t good;

it‘s just an end.

* * *

“Akaaaashi, hey! Hey. It’s Bokuto! Ah! Just calling to... ah, call, and stuff. Um! Please call me back. If you want to! We can talk about whatever you want, it doesn’t have to be! You know. It just doesn’t have to be about today. You can tell me about your lunch, or, or I can tell you about my day, and you don’t have to talk, you know. I don’t have to talk either, I can just sit with you! Would you want that? I can try that. If you want that, I’ll try.

Um. I mean it, Akaashi. Please pick up. I just, I know you’re… or, I know that this—ugh. I.

I just know you, Akaashi.

Okay. Call me back. Goodn—oh, unless you’re asleep maybe, then sleep, for sure. Sleep in a whole lot. Please.

Okay! Okay. Okay.

Goodnight.”

(Akaashi lets the voicemail play through twice; on the third time, he falls asleep.)

* * *

_Ghosting_ is a fitting word, Akaashi decides, for more than one situation.

When he studies alone in his room, or sits by himself in the grass, or waits for a YES, or a NO, or re-reads an old letter meant for his best friend, Akaashi wonders if he’s _ghosting_ , too.

He runs loops around his neighborhood ’til his lungs burn up, which doesn’t take long, of course;

he never had a chance of keeping up.

Not really.

* * *

The first time it happens is at a cafe while Akaashi works on an essay.

He types away while Bokuto chirps into his headphones, filling the silence with easy, nonsensical things. Things that help quiet all the noise in Akaashi’s head. Good and funny things. 

“Oh, that reminds me, Akaashi!” Bokuto blurts. “Some journalist guy is coming by this week? They wanna do a… it was a funny word that made me laugh. Um. OH.” Akaashi hears Bokuto’s fingers snap. “A blurb. Ha! They’re gonna do a blurb on me! For Daily Sports Online!”

Akaashi rubs at the pinch in his brow. “Oh good. That will do wonders for your ego, Bokuto-san.” He rubs hard at his eyes, then continues typing.

“I hope they take photos! I’ve got some poses in mind. Blurb-worthy ones.”

“Mm,” Akaashi hums. He jabs at the delete key, types a sentence again.

“Maybe I should get a haircut before then. What do you think Akaashi.”

“Mm?” Akaashi types. His brow pinches. He deletes. Types faster.

“My hair. Is it… _blurb-worthy._ ”

Akaashi types, and jabs, and deletes, and types, and he says, “I’m not sure you and I have the same definition of _blurb-worthy_ , Bokuto-san—”

And Akaashi doesn’t quite have the word for the pain that shoots up his writing hand, through his tendons and down his forearm. (But maybe it doesn’t need a just-right-word;

he’s just certain that it _hurts_.)

Akaashi gasps.

“Akaashi?” Bokuto says, voice clipped.

Akaashi doesn’t respond; he just gapes down at his writing hand, all tensed up like a claw. He flexes his fingers experimentally, curling them one by one.

“Akaashi,” Bokuto says again. “You okay?”

“Ah, yes,” Akaashi clears his throat. He slowly lowers his hand to the keyboard again and carefully continues to type; “I’m sorry, what were you saying—"

With a simple tap of the return key, Akaashi’s palm flares, something white-hot bursting along the muscles. He hisses through his teeth.

Bokuto’s voice is firmer now; “Hey, hey, hey! Akaashi? What happened?”

When Akaashi grabs his phone, pain flashes through his thumb. “Ah, actually Bokuto-san, I need to call you back, if that’s alright.”  
  
“Wait, Akaashi—”  
  
“I’m sorry. Just,” Akaashi feels helpless as the words tumble from his lips, “I’m very busy. I apologize. Alright, goodbye, Bokuto-san.”  
  
Even hanging up the phone shoots a pang up Akaashi’s palm.

He rubs hard at the pinch in his forehead. The unfinished essay leers at him through his laptop’s screen, glowing an eerie white in the dimly lit cafe. Akaashi makes a fist with his writing hand; he winces.

His phone buzzes on the table.

_“uh!! akaashi!!”_ , the text from Bokuto reads;

_“i’m heading to practice?? gonna call once i’m done!!_

_are u sure ur okay??”_

By the time he finally finishes the essay, it’s well past closing time. A waiter politely asks him to pack up his things.

Akaashi massages his writing hand while he sits on the train, thumbing hard circles into his palm.

There are three missed calls from Bokuto, and one more text;

_“let me know how i can help you akaashi!”_

* * *

Akaashi writes in short, neat—

 _“Ah,”_ he gasps, his favorite writing pen clattering to the floor.

He writes to-do lists, and reminders, and essays, and—

“Damn it,” Akaashi bites down on his lip. He grips his wrist roughly, twisting at the skin.

He writes significant dates in a—

Akaashi’s hand recoils from the blue owl journal; he presses it to his trembling chin.

* * *

“Do we have any ice-packs, okaa-san?” Akaashi asks, probing through the kitchen fridge.

Akaashi’s mother hums down the hallway. “Good question, Keiji!” She joins him in the kitchen, tapping a finger on her lips. She crouches down beside him, looking up and down the fridge’s shelving.

“It’s alright if not,” Akaashi adds. He wrings lightly at his wrist.

“I could grab some next time I’m out,” his mother says. Her expression always rests in a natural smile; the one she makes now is curved with curiosity. “May I ask what you need one for?”

Akaashi drops his wrist. “For... my lunches,” he lies; “It’s getting warmer.”

His mother’s smile only grows. “You’re right, summer’s nearly here!” she says. “You must be happy about that, hm Keiji?”

When her thumb brushes lightly over the pinch in Akaashi's brow, he worries he might cry, and burst into a sobbing mess in front of all their leftovers. 

Thankfully, he doesn't.

* * *

“Akaaaashi, hey! How’re finals going? I’m sure you’re acing them. You’re a _finals-ace_. That’s who you are, Akaashi. Let’s see, I’m… gonna go on a run in a sec. Do you still run Akaashi? We should time it so that we’re running together, kind of. Are your shoes still good? I hope so. I hope you’re good, Akaashi.

Okay, call me back! Or I’ll call you. Okay. Um.

Okay! Bye Akaashi!”

* * *

“Akaaaashi, Akaashi! Hey! Just ah, thought I’d call you, you know! We’re on the way to— _huh? Wait, show me later, I’m talking to—yeah—yeah, I will._ What was I saying… Oh! Duh! Game! We’re playing the Falcons today! I’m super excited, Akaashi. I think I’m really gonna get some playtime in. Ahhh, I’m really excited! I wish you could be here, Akaashi! I think you’d… yeah, I just think! Ah. Nevermind, ha!

I’ll tell you everything later! Okay.  
  
Bye Akaashi.”

* * *

_“hey akaashi, it’s been a while!!_   
_how are you doing?_

_just throwing it out there, me, shirofuku, sarukui i think??_

_we’re grabbing ramen/gonna watch bokuto’s game in a few_   
_just let me know if you’re down :)”_

* * *

_“hi akaashi! did you get konoha’s text?”_

* * *

“Akaaaashi! Hey! Tell me about graduation, Akaashi! Yukippe told me all about it, but I wanna hear it from you! How do you feel? Relieved, right? I was so relieved when I graduated. I can’t believe I made it. Well. I can, actually!

I had you!”

* * *

“Hey! Uh! Kenma told me about some kind of internship? Did you apply for an internship, Akaashi? Call me back, okay!”  
  
“Wait, first, just! Look! This is the truth, Akaashi. You’re the best writer in the world. I’ve never even read one of your stories, but I know they’re the best, because I know you, Akaashi. If those book... people, or, whoever, if they didn’t pick you for the job, then! Then I’m sorry, but they’re the worst! You know, I’m not even a little bit sorry, actually. I mean it.”  
  
“You know that, right Akaashi? You’re the best. You really are.”   
  
"Sorry for all these voicemails, 'Kaashi. I know you're really busy. Uh. Hey. Listen. Do you want to visit sometime this summer? I know it's far! I know it's far. But we can do whatever! Like! There’s lots of good food, just tons, and there’s the gym, Akaashi! And the river. I really like it.I think you’d like it.

I… yeah. Uh! Just... let me know!

Bye. Akaashi.”

* * *

"Hey Akaashi. Uh. 

We really need to talk. 

Call me back, okay?"

* * *

It's for Bokuto's sake, Akaashi decides. It's just easier this way. 

(He could never keep up, not really. There are a million words you could use to describe Bokuto, and Akaashi,

he was only adequate, if that.)

Whatever _line_ Akaashi Keiji crossed in his first year of high school by mistake, 

he'll go back now,

and uncross it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (It'll be okay, I promise. <3)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What do you want, Bokuto-san.“ 
> 
> “You should be icing that.“ 

In Akaashi’s first year of university, he has it all together.

(A post-it note on his apartment’s bathroom mirror reads this phrase:

_Task Focus,_

written with Akaashi’s non-dominant hand.) 

In Akaashi’s first year of university, he balances work and life with ease.

(“Money isn’t an issue, Keiji,” his mother sighs through the phone. “You’re working far too much.“

“I enjoy my time at the bookshop, okaa-san,” he replies. “Not to mention the employee discount.”)

In Akaashi’s first year of university, he buys cool, mature clothes—

(“How did you break it?” a girl whispers in the library.

Akaashi blinks. “Excuse me?”

She points her pencil to Akaashi’s wrist brace.

“Oh, it’s not, ah,” Akaashi tugs his blazer’s sleeve over the brace; “It’s preventative.”  
  
“Ah,” the girl says. She cocks her head just slightly.)

—and wears glasses with thick frames that make him look like a serious writer—

(Akaashi rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, but no matter how hard he presses, the words don’t stop blurring.) 

—and in Akaashi’s first year of university, he’s very happy on his own. Yes, one can glean a great many lessons from team sports, like the values of cooperation, and communication. But some people just work better alone;

Akaashi is definitely one of those people.

(When Daily Sports Online publishes a blurb on a promising V.League newcomer, Akaashi prints it out at the library, and pins it above his desk.

He likes to keep up with the sport, and moreover, the article is very well-written.)

* * *

Akaashi stocks the New Fiction shelves on a chilly autumn evening. He’s squinting at an author’s bio when the bookshop’s front door swings open; cold air rushes in and through all the aisles, prickling Akaashi’s neck with goosebumps.

“Welcome,” he calls. He looks over his shoulder.

Bokuto Koutarou stands in the entryway, looking back.

His silver hair is stuffed in a baseball cap, jacket half-on, half-off, and the overwhelming urge Akaashi feels to properly button him up nearly outweighs his other urge to run right out the door, but Akaashi does neither. He stands still as stone.

“Akaashi,” Bokuto says, his voice oddly quiet, but then, much louder, _far_ too loud for a bookshop, “Akaashi, we need to talk.”

Bokuto closes the distance to check-out in three easy strides, and he fixes Akaashi’s gaze with his own, bright, and wild, and,

and angry, Akaashi thinks. That has to be the word;

Bokuto’s eyes are very _angry_.

Akaashi’s certain he’ll be sick.

“I’m,” Akaashi’s voice tries to hide somewhere deep inside his chest, “no, we can’t right now, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto’s lips press into a harsh line. “Why not.”

“You can’t just… I’m working,” Akaashi ducks his head; “you should’ve called.”

Bokuto flinches. “You wouldn’t have answered.”

Akaashi wishes he could truly disappear.

Bokuto continues, steadfast: “What time are you off?” His right leg bounces nervously. Bokuto’s still dressed in his kneepads and practice shorts, team logo emblazoned boldly.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Akaashi says.

“What time,” Bokuto asks again. Troublesome, as always.

Akaashi lifts the book in his hand to the Non Fiction shelf, squinting for its proper placement. “I am sorry you came all this way Bokuto-san,” he huffs, “but this will have to wait.”  
  
He shoves the book in too roughly.

He bites his lip; the tendons flare;

and then Bokuto’s hand is reaching. 

He takes Akaashi’s hand in his, thumbing gently at the fitted brace.

(Akaashi _wants_.)  
  
“It’s nothing,” he lies.

Bokuto shakes his head, brow knit.

(There’s no use in hiding;)

“What time are you off,” Bokuto asks again, voice raw.

(not from him.)  
  
“Soon,” Akaashi answers.

* * *

It’s familiar, of course, but also nothing ever like before. A thick silence sits between them on the bus ride to Akaashi’s apartment. Outside it’s getting darker; the bus is veiled in one gray shadow.

“You’ve come a long way,” Akaashi manages to utter. “We could stop somewhere for food.”

“Not hungry,” Bokuto says. He watches passing cars;

Akaashi watches Bokuto.

He’s not very hungry either.

* * *

Akaashi flips on the light.

The apartment isn’t much; a small bedroom, a skinny kitchen. Bokuto looks like a piece that doesn’t fit in his apartment’s puzzle, all big and square and bright. He silently shuffles to the sliding glass door that leads to Akaashi’s humble balcony; when Bokuto’s eyes trace over the laundry hanging to dry, Akaashi’s cheeks feel warm.

Akaashi doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, or to say. You don’t usually offer a seat to your best friend; they just sit. But Bokuto regards Akaashi’s apartment with caution, like it’s displayed behind glass.

They stand in the strange silence until Akaashi can’t wait anymore, but Bokuto can’t seem to wait either. They both speak at once;

“What do you want, Bokuto-san.“ “You should be icing that.“

Akaashi’s shoulders tense.

Bokuto squeezes past Akaashi to the fridge. He fumbles through the freezer’s contents like it’s his own and emerges with the plastic blue pack. He wraps it in a washcloth and points to Akaashi’s brace. “Take that off.”  
  
Akaashi crosses his arms. “You said you wanted to talk.”

“C’mon. Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off,” Bokuto says, gesturing with the ice-pack.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi sulks, but he unstraps the brace regardless. Bokuto takes Akaashi’s arm and guides him quietly to the tiny floor sofa. He gently, gently presses the pack to Akaashi’s writing wrist. They’re too close, Akaashi thinks. He shifts to face a small stack of books, to face anything but Bokuto. Still, he feels the bright eyes on his wrist, and the back of his neck, and it isn’t thrilling at all. Not even a little.

“I know you’re smarter than me and all, Akaashi,” Bokuto says, “but you’re pretty dumb.”

Akaashi whips around, brow pinched,

but then he crumbles, because Bokuto’s eyes are misting.

“I’m sorry, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says right away. “I’m very, very sorry.”

Bokuto’s chewing his lip as he nods; he wraps Akaashi’s writing hand with both of his own, strong and warm.  
  
“I understand,” Akaashi says. He makes a weak fist. “Your anger with me is justified.”

Bokuto furrows his brow. He still chews on his lip. His knee begins to bounce.

Akaashi swallows. “I should’ve told you—“

“What should you have told me?” Bokuto says suddenly, sharply. He leans in, his eyes incredibly focused.

Akaashi shrinks back.

“Tell me.” Though Bokuto’s eyes are still red and glassy, they’re steady. Unhesitating.

Akaashi feels the urge again, to run and hide,

or something more;

to _hold;_

but Akaashi can hardly meet Bokuto’s eyes, or breathe; he feels like he’s standing at the brink of something very, very big, and one more look or word from Bokuto could send him tipping over.

“I told you,” Bokuto continues, “promised you,” he corrects, “that wherever I go, you’ll be there with me.”

“Impossible,” Akaashi hears himself mutter.

Bokuto’s gaze narrows. “Nothing’s impossible, Akaashi.”

Akaashi nearly laughs. “We’re not in high school anymore, Bokuto-san.”  
  
“So?” Bokuto shrugs. “What’s your point?”

Akaashi actually does laugh this time, bitterly. “You’re unbelievable.” Bokuto doesn’t react, just waits. Akaashi feels his tone turn sharp. “How was I supposed to ever follow you, Bokuto-san?”

“I didn’t ask you to follow me,” Bokuto says, and it’s like he’s holding something back.

“Then what do you want from me?” Akaashi hears the hurt bleeding into his voice and he hates it; he wishes he could be the rational, remote, infallible thing that people thought him to be, just this once; “What am I supposed to do? I’m not going to sit here and, and play pretend with you, Bokuto-san. You don’t live here anymore, you’re always traveling, and training—”

“I know that,” Bokuto says, and he’s still trying to hold back, to restrain. “I’m not… _pretending_ , Akaashi, I don’t like being far from—”

“Then please, help me understand,” Akaashi says, and he lets all the spite spill over, “because you’re absolutely correct, I’m clearly too _dumb_ to see how I was supposed to uphold my end of the deal here.“

“Akaashi, you don’t have to _do_ anything! I don’t—I don’t _want_ something from you; this isn’t some test.” Bokuto grips at Akaashi’s sleeve; he urges, “I just want you to trust me,” and he breaks; “that’s all.”

Akaashi shakes his head; his voice strains, “Of course I trust you.”

 _“Akaashi.”_

“I trust you, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi assures again, trying to sound firm.

“Then why won't you talk to me?” Bokuto asks. His brow crumples. He pulls the ice-pack aside and gently takes Akaashi’s wrist; “You’re hurt.” Bokuto looks to the pinch in Akaashi’s brow. “And you’re stressed.” His eyes search Akaashi’s own. “You need rest.”

(Akaashi _wants._ )

“I’m fine,” Akaashi whispers.

“I want to take care of you, Akaashi,” Bokuto says. “Please let me.”

(Akaashi _wants_.)

“It’s not necessary, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi drops his gaze. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know.” Bokuto’s hand drifts up to Akaashi’s elbow. “But you don’t seem to want to right now, and I’m just trying to figure out why. I have no idea why. You're perfect to me, Akaashi.”

Akaashi looks up,

and Bokuto’s looking back;

( _“you never know”_ , Shirofuku’s text read,

but Akaashi disagrees;)

Bokuto’s eyes are _welcoming_.

(he knew;)

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi whispers.

(he’s always known.)

Akaashi kisses Bokuto, 

and his lips are soft.

Then Akaashi slowly pulls away. 

Bokuto blinks. And blinks again. He squeezes Akaashi’s elbow,

and the most beautiful expression blooms across his face, like Bokuto’s never been happier; “Wow”, he whispers, so earnest and true,

and _oh_ ,

“I love you,” Akaashi says simply. "Very much." 

_“Wow.”_ Bokuto raises a hand to Akaashi’s face, fingertips ghosting along his jaw, and across his warm cheek. He laughs, a little breathless. "You read my mind, Akaashi." 

Bokuto kisses Akaashi like he is something truly precious.

* * *

In Akaashi’s first year of university on a windy autumn night,

he's certain he’s never been happier, either,   
  
and lets Bokuto know it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 one chapter left now! thank you very much for following along.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is a volleyball spike to the heart, Akaashi,” Bokuto whispers gravely.

The morning after Akaashi’s confession, he traces the light draped across Bokuto’s forehead and sleeves with two very careful fingers. He charts the perked slope to Bokuto’s nose. Studies his pale lashes. With the same two careful fingers, he presses the spot in Bokuto’s cheek that dimples when he smiles.

The dimple appears, then; Bokuto wakes.

Akaashi blinks. “Oh.”

Bokuto stretches his arms, face squishing up, stupid and adorable and perfect. He sighs happily and looks to Akaashi again. “Oh?”

“Oh,” Akaashi says again. “I don’t know. You’re just.” _You’re real_ , he thinks, but he says, “You’re here.”  
  
Bokuto stares for a second, eyes especially golden in the late morning light, and then he laughs. It fills Akaashi’s bedroom in a nice way, like a very nice photo hung up just right on the wall. “Yeah, ‘Kaashi. I’m here.”

Akaashi just nods, like a _yes, I agree,_ sort of nod,

but then he feels himself smiling, like a hopelessly lovestruck sort of smile,

and maybe Akaashi needs to put on his glasses, but Bokuto seems to be smiling that sort of smile, too.

Bokuto’s nose wrinkles. “Um. Hey. Akaashi.”  
  
“I think I have an extra toothbrush around,” Akaashi answers the unasked question, though it’s sort of a lie; he knows exactly where the extra toothbrush is waiting, and has been waiting all this time, and Akaashi feels a kind of lightness in his chest;

He doesn’t have to wait anymore.

Bokuto is here.

* * *

In Akaashi’s second year of university, he calls.

Bokuto always answers on the nearly-last ring. His voice is usually out of breath, like he’s just raced across the gym and tunneled through the messy abyss of his backpack to find the phone. It makes Akaashi grin, the picture’s just so clear. “Hello!” Bokuto answers. “Akaashi?”  
  
“Hello, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi replies. “How are you.”

“I was really good already, but I’m really, _really_ good, now!” Bokuto says. Akaashi can hear the smile. “What’s up?”

“Am I interrupting y—“  
  
“Nope. Nope nope nope.”

“Ah. Well,” Akaashi adjusts in his seat. A coffee rests beside him on the park bench he’d chosen; he takes a small sip. “I finished my studying for the day.”

“Yeah?” Akaashi hears Bokuto take a sip of something, too. “Do you have work tonight?”  
  
“I don’t,” Akaashi blows at the coffee’s lid. “I decided your advice was rather sound, and won’t be working on the days I have class.”

“Really?” Bokuto chirps. “Akaashi! That’s awesome! Wow! I’m so happy!”  
  
“You’re always happy, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi muses. The coffee cup warms his fingers.

“But I’m really, _really_ happy, now!”  
  
(Bokuto warms his soul.)  
  
He rambles on; “So what are you gonna do with all that free time, huh! Take a bath? Read some manga?”

“I might,” Akaashi says. “Though… there’s a movie I’d like to rent. Bokuto-san, if you’re not busy, would you—“  
  
“Ohhhh, can I watch it with you, Akaashi?”

Akaashi brings the coffee to his lips; the warm steam billows up his cheeks and nose. “Yes,” Akaashi says, “please.”

He sips.

* * *

  
  
It takes time, and it takes Bokuto’s persistent hounding, but Akaashi’s writing hand slowly heals.

“You’re still an athlete, Akaashi,” Bokuto explains. He paces back and forth in Akaashi’s living room. “There’s no difference, right? Instead of making great tosses to me, you’re making great stories. So, what do you need to do to perform your very best, and give that story stuff your all? You need to…” Bokuto points to Akaashi with a grand flourish.

Akaashi’s brow furrows. “Stretch?” he guesses weakly.

Bokuto’s eyes flash. “Yes! And?” He swings his arms around again for another showy finger-point. “What else!”

Akaashi looks about the room for some kind of answer; he eyes the fridge in his peripheral. “A healthy diet.”

Bokuto nods very sagely, stroking his chin. “Yes, yes! You need to eat well, and drink plenty of water. But most importantly…!” Bokuto then attempts a somersault in the tiny apartment, luckily only kicking a stray book from Akaashi’s coffee table to the floor in the process; Akaashi catches it. Bokuto swings both his hands wide, expectant, beaming.  
  
Akaashi shakes his head, a little dumbstruck. “I don’t know.”  
  
Bokuto just stretches his arms out wider, silvery brows raised high and hopeful.

“I don’t know, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi sighs; he grips his writing wrist, suddenly self-conscious.

Bokuto’s eyes soften at that; he crawls to the floor sofa and wraps an arm around Akaashi, wonderfully solid and strong. “Athletes need rest, Akaashi. Especially when they’re injured. They can’t just play through—”  
  
“It’s not the same,” Akaashi hears himself snapping.

Bokuto watches Akaashi, quietly curious. “Why not?”

Akaashi flexes his fingers. “Well. I just. It’s not like—“

“What’s the I stand for in RSI, again?” Bokuto mumbles. He looks to the ceiling, expression lost in comical thought. “Repetitive Stress… Imagination. Nope. Izakaya? Repetitive Stress Izakaya. Repetitive Stress Iceberg. Repetitive—”

“I get it, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi grumbles. He shrinks inside Bokuto’s hold, chin tucked to his knees. 

Bokuto plays with Akaashi’s hair, curling strands around his index finger. “It’s not gonna get better if you keep pushing through pain, Akaashi.” Bokuto kisses the top of Akaashi’s head. “Unless you live on some opposite planet in opposite Japan, where nothing makes sense.”

Akaashi snorts.

When Bokuto kisses Akaashi’s head again, he can feel the grin buried in his hair.

Despite his earnest effort, Akaashi can’t keep the tears from brimming at the corners of his eyes.

Bokuto wraps another arm around Akaashi. “Akaaaaashi. I don’t like upsetting you. I just want you to get better.”

“It isn’t you, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi mutters—Bokuto never upsets him; he grips lightly at Bokuto’s shirt. “I’m upset with myself.”

“Because you’re too awesome, right?” Bokuto says. He playfully sighs. “It’s alright, Akaashi, it’s not your fault. You can’t help it." 

Akaashi pinches Bokuto’s arm. _“Ha.”_

Bokuto only snickers. He tilts his head. “Why’re you upset, ‘Kaashi.”

Akaashi turns a bit into Bokuto’s chest. He finds the words slowly, though they’ve been there all his life; “This is what happened when I gave my all. I broke. Very easily. I can’t even send a text without needing ice.” He makes a weak fist, but Bokuto unfurls it, finger by finger. “It’s just the way things are. I’ve always known.”

“Known what.” Bokuto’s voice is very low.

Akaashi swallows. “My all isn’t… It’s not enough. That’s all.”

“No.” Bokuto pulls Akaashi’s legs over his own, pulls him in, pulls him close.“Don’t say that, Akaashi.”

“It’s true,” Akaashi whispers. Some small piece of him wishes it weren’t true, for Bokuto’s sake. But,

“It’s impossible,” Bokuto says.

Akaashi looks up. “What?”

Bokuto’s mouth is curved into a soft smile. “It’s impossible, Akaashi.”

Akaashi’s brow pinches. “You said nothing is impossible.”

“I know,” Bokuto nods. “I didn’t know there was an exception. You’re the exception, Akaashi. You’ll always,”

Bokuto presses his lips against Akaashi’s writing hand, soft against the palm,

“always,”

and he kisses his knuckles, too,

“be enough.”

And so Akaashi rests, and gets better. The process is slow, but it gets easier, and then easier still; Bokuto shows the way.

* * *

In Osaka, Akaashi finds the river, and then Bokuto’s dorm soon after.

It’d taken only a little bit of coordination; Sakusa Kiyoomi’s number was easy enough to get without Bokuto knowing. Though his appearance was steely, he was not cruel; not to Akaashi, at least. When Akaashi divulged his plan, Sakusa’s voice replied cooly over the phone, “He would like that, probably,” and agreed to help.

So Sakusa slips out of the dorm room early in the morning, while Akaashi quietly slips in.

The space feels familiar to Akaashi, even in the dark; the words from all of Bokuto’s phone calls now have images to match them as Akaashi’s eyes wander over the gray carpet, and the One Piece posters, and the window that looks out over the river.

Bokuto lies in his bed fast asleep, one arm hanging limply, fingers dragging on the floor. His mouth is wide open with a bold snore, and Akaashi is so overcome with affection, he nearly clutches his heart to keep it from bursting.

Instead, he pulls the cup of cocoa out from behind his back, and after one deep breath, he sings;

“Happy birthday to you,” Akaashi kneels at Bokuto’s bedside, “happy birthday to you,” and his voice sounds terrible, he should never be allowed to sing, he should be arrested for how badly he’s singing to his boyfriend, “happy birthday dear Bokuto-san,”

and Bokuto’s lashes flutter, and his eyes open wide, and then wider,

“happy birthday to _you_.”

Bokuto props himself up onto a wobbly elbow. “Akaashi?” He pushes his hair out from his eyes. “You’re here?” He reaches a hand to Akaashi’s nose and presses it experimentally. Bokuto gasps. “You’re here!”

“Yes, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says warmly. He presents the cocoa. “For you. Birthday cocoa.”  
  
Bokuto gasps again. He takes the cup as if it’s holy, and gives it a sip. His eyes glimmer. “No way.”

“I thought you could show me around for the day,” Akaashi shrugs, but he’s suddenly pulled into the bed with impressive ease.

“I love you, Akaashi!” Bokuto says, wrapping Akaashi up tight. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi laughs, “you’re going to spill.” He extracts the birthday cocoa, taking a greedy sip of his own before setting it carefully on the floor.

Bokuto flips Akaashi onto his back in the bed. “You’re here,” Bokuto breathes, hovering over Akaashi. “In Osaka. With me!”

Akaashi lets his smile bloom freely. “I hope that’s alright.”

Bokuto laughs loud and swoops in for a kiss, practically stealing Akaashi’s breath. (Kissing Bokuto Koutarou is _remarkable_.)

Their lips taste like birthday cocoa.

When Bokuto pulls away, Akaashi lets the feeling seep; “I am very happy to see you, Bokuto-san.”  
  
Bokuto shines.

He shows Akaashi the river, step by step.

* * *

“Read it to me, Akaashi,” Bokuto says, voice crackling through the phone.

Akaashi nods, putting Bokuto onto speaker phone and swiping up the email. He clears his throat, skin prickling with goosebumps.

 _“‘Hello Akaashi-san,’”_ he reads, _“‘I am an associate editor at Weekly Shonen Vie, and we are staffing up for an upcoming debut manga. In my ongoing search for candidates, I stumbled across a story you submitted to the literature department years ago.’”_  
  
Akaashi pauses for a breath.

“Hey, hey. Keep going, Akaashi.”  
  
Akaashi nods to himself, scrolling a bit down the message. _“‘It was a magical,’”_ and Akaashi feels his head go a little swimmy, _“‘funny, and bittersweet read with a great ending. Thank you for sharing it.’”_  
  
“Keiji,” Bokuto whispers.

“Ah,” Akaashi continues, _“‘I know it’s been some time, but I think you would be a great creative match for one of our debuting artists in,’”_ Akaashi’s eyes stutter a bit over the following words, _“‘the manga department. Please let me know if this is something you’d be interested in. Thank you for your time.’”_

Akaashi stays silent for a bit, and Bokuto, too.

“What’re we thinkin’, ‘Kaashi,” Bokuto finally asks.

And Akaashi’s not really sure how to answer. ( _Ghosting_ was the word that Kenma had used, way back when at Spring Interhigh. But this email felt less like a spirit haunting Akaashi from the beyond,

and more like a zombie crawling out from its grave.

And yet—)

“She thought my story was funny,” Akaashi says absently.

He hears Bokuto scoff over the line. “Well, duh! Obviously! You’re the funniest person on earth!” 

Akaashi cracks a smile. “You’re biased.”

“I am! But it’s also the truth!”

“Alright,” Akaashi brings the phone close to his cheek. “I believe you.”

(Bokuto calls later that night with questions about the job; the hours, and the workload, and the pay, and commute. “I did some research!” Bokuto says. And _oh_ ,

Akaashi loves him.)

* * *

Shirofuku stabs the slice of cake with her fork. “And you’re really sure about this, Akaashi?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Akaashi pats his mouth with a napkin. “I start in two weeks.”

The cake makes Shirofuku’s voice all sticky. “It just sounds like a lot of work. Can you imagine, all that drawing in a week?”  
  
“It will be…” Akaashi thinks for a moment, twirling his fork, “challenging, certainly.” He thinks of all the years he’d spent behind a volleyball net, calling names and making tosses. Weekly Shonen Vie won’t be like volleyball, he assumes, but perhaps it won’t be all that _unlike_ it, either.

Shirofuku chews and chomps, like eating will help her find words faster. She looks to the cafe window, her long bangs falling in her eyes, and swallows. “I don’t want to worry for you. You’re not just my friend, Akaashi, you’re my kohai, and I didn’t—” She bites her lip. Shirofuku presses a hand against her cheek. “I just don’t want to worry.”

Akaashi slowly lowers his fork. “Shirofuku-san,” he says, and then, after a moment more, “Yukippe.”

Shirofuku looks up.

“I appreciate your concern.” Akaashi adjusts his glasses with a little nudge. “If I were you, I’m sure I’d feel the same. Bokuto-san had similar reservations. I had no idea I was this…” A small and sad smile buds along his lips. “… _troublesome_.” Akaashi gives a small bow at the table. “I am sorry, Yukippe.”

“It’s,” Shirofuku shakes her head, “it’s really okay.” She grins a little. And then after a few seconds, the grin curls devilishly.  
  
“What,” Akaashi asks, straightening a bit.

“Tell me more about these, uh,” Shirofuku leans over the table with a coy shoulder shimmy, “ _reservations_ that Bokuto had, hm?”

“Shirofuku-san.” Akaashi hides his mouth with a napkin.

“Is he a bad kisser?” Shirofuku stabs another slice of cake and downs it. “I bet he’s awful. C’mon, you can tell me. Tell your ol’ senpai.”

Akaashi feels his face go up in flames.

“Ohhhhhh, that good, huh?” Shirofuku smiles, mouth full of cake. “A kissing ace!”

Akaashi buries his head in napkin while Shirofuku chuckles sweetly at his unending suffering.

Her hand reaches over and pulls up the napkin by an inch; Shirofuku leans to take a peek underneath. “It’s nice seeing you like this,” Shirofuku says.

“Mortified,” Akaashi groans.

“Happy,” Shirofuku replies.

“Oh.” Akaashi pulls the napkin away slowly, and combs his hair back into place. “I see.”

Shirofuku smiles cheekily through the last bite of her cake. She hums, “My happy kohai.”

* * *

Though Akaashi knows he is young and has plenty to learn, meeting Tenma Udai brings some kind of clarity to his life that his eyeglasses can’t.

Tenma Udai buzzes with potential. That, and concerning amounts of caffeine.  
  
His hair looks like it’s been drawn with his own ink brush, gestural and free.

He chats politely with colleagues and gives easy smiles, but when he tells Akaashi about his dreams, he comes alive. He points, and shouts, and slams his fist on the table. He pitches outlines for new chapters with vibrant energy, making funny sound effects and giving each character unique voices.

He gives his all.

And he doubts, too. Often.

He stays up late, and forgets to stretch.

He wrings his wrist like Akaashi always did, as if you could twist away the ache.

Tenma Udai is caught somewhere between a star and a storm, Akaashi thinks; a wonderfully fine and familiar line.

So Akaashi reaches out;

he connects;

he believes in Tenma Udai.

Deadlines, finish lines, inked lines on paper;

he’ll meet Tenma halfway and pull him through,

step by step.

* * *

There’s still some waiting, but it’s always well worth it.

Sometimes Akaashi waits at the train platform, striking just the right waiting-for-my-boyfriend pose, super casual, not at all nervously eager. (His heart is always pounding so loud when Bokuto steps off the train, he wonders if all of Japan can hear how just much he loves him.)

Sometimes Akaashi waits at the office, and Bokuto picks him up from work. (Bokuto treats him to dinner and boba on those nights, and tells wonderful stories to keep Akaashi’s mind off of the pile of edits waiting for approval back on his desk.)

Sometimes Akaashi waits at his apartment for the loud knock at the door and the “hey, hey, hey”. (Akaashi always tries to have dinner prepared on those nights; he relishes the way Bokuto’s eyes light up in surprise, and how Bokuto always carefully places Akaashi’s glasses up high on the bookshelf before peppering his face with kisses and thank-you’s.

He savors the look of Bokuto’s shoes lined up beside his in the entryway.

He pulls out his journal in the morning to write down the feeling of seeing Bokuto’s bare feet poking out from beneath the comforter, which is a deeply _good_ feeling that Akaashi really loves.)

Most times, still, Akaashi waits by the phone, because this is the kind of thing you do for stars and champions and Olympian-hopefuls. But Bokuto always calls exactly when he says he will, like he’s been waiting just as long for Akaashi, too.

It’s on the phone one evening when a plan forms in Akaashi’s mind.

“And then after we win,” Bokuto says, and with added emphasis he continues, “and we will _definitely_ win, I’ll help ya with that interview thingy for your manga, and then!” Akaashi hears a clap through the phone. “Osaka date night! Woo-hoooo! I’m so excited!”

“Thank you again for agreeing to the interview on such short notice, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says. He writes in short, neat strokes; a list of what to pack for the weekend in Osaka. _Pajamas. Toiletries. His work laptop_ —no, Akaashi scratches that off the list. He deserves the break.

“Of course, ‘Kaashi!” Akaashi imagines Bokuto lifting his chin high, plainly proud of himself. “Anything for you! I can’t wait to finally meet Udai-sensei, heh! I’m a pretty big fan!”

Akaashi presses a thumb to his smile, very pleased with his own brilliance; upon request (and several coffees all paid for by Akaashi), Tenma had drawn a Zombie Knight Zom’bish-ified Bokuto, and signed it with a note. “He’s excited to meet you, too, Bokuto-san.”

“I’m sure he’s heard all about me, right,” Bokuto’s voice sounds wry, “since you sing my praises ‘round the office every day!”

“I air my complaints quite openly, yes.”

“Akaaaaashi!” The familiar garble of his name rings loud in his ears; Akaashi wishes it were paired with Bokuto’s real lips and funny brows right here in his bedroom.

“I love you, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi thinks aloud, like it’s a reflex.

He hears Bokuto take a tiny breath. “Wow.” And then, after a long pause, “Akaashi, I think I’ve loved you for forever.”

Akaashi grips the blanket wrapped about his shoulders.

(He thinks of the boy who always rolled up his blazer's sleeves;

who sulked beneath desks, curled up like a ball;

who always looked to him first, even though everyone else was all around;

and Akaashi thinks of that boy loving him.)

And that’s why the plan forms, because Akaashi decides that Bokuto has waited long enough.

* * *

Volleyball is thrilling, Akaashi remembers with a rush; it’s _fun_.

Watching Bokuto play his very best is nothing short of delightful,

and Akaashi doesn’t care at all—he lets it show. When Bokuto beams at the crowd, so undeniably remarkable, Akaashi beams back. He laughs. He marvels.

He takes great pleasure in a secret that no one in the stands knows but him;

Bokuto is the world’s ace for the night, but he is Akaashi’s ace always.

One star in the night sky will always be _his_.

The MSBY Jackals win just like Bokuto said they would, and it fills up Akaashi with a very deep joy; a joy that runs further and wider than the Yodo River.

* * *

Bokuto fawns over the signed drawing from Tenma at barbecue, his eyes rounder and shinier than baubles on a Christmas tree. “This is a volleyball spike to the heart, Akaashi,” he whispers gravely, and Akaashi nearly chokes on his beer.

* * *

They walk along the river to Bokuto’s new apartment. Though Akaashi can see his breath puffing up in the air, he feels warm from head to toe with Bokuto’s hand wrapped over his.

The moon’s reflection lies in the river, a perfect, silver circle.

When Akaashi looks up to Bokuto, his sharp face lined with moonlight, he wants to laugh a little bit at the high school version of himself—the one who agonized over the perfect day, and the precisely right moment.

He wants to laugh, but he also wants to reach out and soothe the anxiety in that younger Akaashi’s heart, like spreading wrinkled bedsheets smooth.

 _Bokuto is here,_ he would assure that Akaashi,

_so the moment’s always right._

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says.

Bokuto squeezes Akaashi’s hand, and looks down to him fondly.

“You know how,” and Akaashi takes a deep breath, “you always ask to read the things I write.”

Bokuto slows his steps. “Yeah.”  
  
“And you know how,” Akaashi’s cheeks tingle, still flushed from his drinks, “I never let you.”

Bokuto laughs a little bit. “Yeah.”

Akaashi pulls Bokuto to a stop on the sidewalk. Lit by the moon and a few glowing shopfronts, he takes a shaky hand and pulls a neatly folded paper square from his coat’s pocket. A nervous lump forms in his throat while he unfolds the paper, quiet and methodic.

“‘Kaashi?” Bokuto asks.

“I wrote this in,” Akaashi swallows, “high school. In your third year. And my second. I,” Akaashi flattens the paper’s bends with a trembling palm, “would like to read it to you, if you don’t mind.”

Bokuto shakes his head softly. “I don’t mind,” he says. He stands a bit taller, chewing gently on his lip.

Though Akaashi anticipates the impulse to run when a star is staring at him so intently, Bokuto’s eyes don’t intimidate him anymore, and they haven’t for a long, long time. They only make Akaashi stronger,

so Akaashi finally reads the letter.

 _“‘Dear,’”_ Akaashi gestures didactically at Bokuto, _“‘Bokuto-san,’”_ and it makes Bokuto let out a high laugh, a little surprised. _“‘You once asked me what was at the top of the list of things I like. I told you it was writing, but that was a lie, because,’”_ the letter creases in Akaashi’s grip, _“‘you are the thing I like most of all,’”_

and Bokuto touches Akaashi’s sleeve,

 _“‘more than reading; more than summertime;’”_

Bokuto’s hand squeezes Akaashi's arm,

 _“‘you,’”_ Akaashi reads, _“‘are my top of the list.’”_

Bokuto sighs.

 _“‘Though I’m not,’”_ and Akaashi palms at a little tear in his eye with a shy laugh, “I’m sorry.”

“Keiji,” he whispers. He brushes the hairs along Akaashi’s forehead.

Akaashi clears his throat. He tries again. _“‘Though I’m not sure you feel the same, I still want you to know; I am better with you. I don’t say that enough. But with you,’”_ and Akaashi looks up, _“‘Bokuto-san,’”_ and Bokuto looks back, _“‘I am far better. Love,’”_

Akaashi folds the letter in half, and with a short exhale, he says, _“‘Akaashi.’”_

Bokuto lifts him up like he’s lighter than air, and though the cherry blossoms still dot the river in full bloom, Akaashi feels like summer’s bursting inside him, all greens and golds and Bokuto. Akaashi laughs, and laughs more, and kisses Bokuto’s temple, and his nose. “Koutarou,” he whispers into Bokuto’s hair (he wants to say Bokuto's name forever, there is no greater word,) and Bokuto lowers him to eye-level.

“I don’t have a ring, Keiji,” Bokuto whispers, and Akaashi’s eyes widen at that.

“What?” Akaashi searches Bokuto’s face for the catch, but there isn’t any.

Bokuto’s never looked so happy.

“I don’t have a ring,” Bokuto says, “but I’ll get one,” he holds Akaashi’s cheek, “and I’ll ask you what I really want to ask you right now. But first I’ll need a ring.”

“Koutarou,” Akaashi places his hand over Bokuto’s, and he presses, “you already know.”  
  
Bokuto just blinks sweetly. "I know?" 

“Please,” Akaashi says, “ask.”

The moon glimmers in the river, and Bokuto pulls Akaashi close.

“Marry me, Keiji.”  
  
(There is a word for this;) _“Yes.”_  
  
  


* * *

Akaashi writes in short, neat strokes.

He writes to-do lists, and grocery lists, and significant dates in a journal.

He writes notes (Drink Water, Take Breaks, Call Mom, I Love You) and doodles stars in their corners with funny ink faces.

He writes stories of all kinds.

He gives them good endings.

With a smile he lies back and watches Bokuto read them.

_ (The End) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you very very much for taking the time to read this story! i had so much fun writing it and reading all your thoughts; i hope to write more, and to read more great stories about these dummies with good endings. thank you again. <3


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